


Old Gregg's Academy

by focusfixated



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Real World, F/F, M/M, Schoolboys, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/focusfixated/pseuds/focusfixated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orphaned at the age of six, and living in foster homes until the age of sixteen, Vince Noir is used to moving around from place to place, never really feeling like he belongs anywhere. A few months before his seventeenth birthday, however, he learns that his grandmother, Doris, ex-military spy and retired fighter pilot has just returned from Mexico where she spent the last ten years hiding from the Russian secret service. Suddenly, Vince's life is turned upside down as he moves in with his barking mad old Nan and is sent to Greggory's Academy, the highly questionable local school. </p><p>Talking gorillas, shaman Headmasters, Cockney dinner-ladies and a whole host of seriously under-qualified teachers are just some of the things Vince has to deal with daily at Old Gregg's. Luckily, his new friends Leroy, Neon and Ultra are there to help him along the way. The only problem is Howard Moon, who's about to make Vince's already weird life even more confusing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You just get used to it

**Author's Note:**

> so this started as a late-night, half-asleep conversation with my sister imagining what a school-age AU of the boosh characters would be like with students and teachers and everything. i wrote bits of it down so i wouldn't forget it, in what was essentially glorified commentfic for our own fun, but somehow it grew into a massive chaptered 30k+ howard/vince story that took me over two years to write. this was originally posted to livejournal in december 2011. enjoy!

Vince Noir was feeling nervous. His hair was upsettingly limp from the rain, his toes squelched uncomfortably in his non-waterproof suede boots, and his hands were sweating. He was standing on the doorstep of an old house, crumbly bits of brick getting all over his shoes, overhanging wreaths of ivy falling in creepy tendrils of tangled green, coming towards him like curious fingers. The house looked a bit like the sort of place in fairytales where either really good things or really bad things happened. Like it might’ve been a place full of friendly, mining dwarves, but it might also have been the home of a crotchety old witch who ate children for tea. 

He had a suitcase in his hand, and he rested it against the crooked stone steps, trying to work up the nerve to knock on the door. The suitcase had been one of those ugly, grey canvas things to begin with, but Vince had gone at it with glitter-glue and ribbons and pins until he was properly satisfied it was garish enough. His last foster mum – the one he’d been staying with just before everything changed – had told him that decorating the suitcase was a stupid thing to do, because luggage handlers were lazy and careless and his bag would be ruined before he even boarded a plane. But Vince Noir never listened to anyone’s advice but his own when it came to accessorising, and the last family he'd lived with were so tight they'd never taken him on holiday further than Cornwall anyway, so it wasn’t like airports and luggage handlers were even an issue.

The point, though, was that Vince Noir was not on holiday. This creaky, crumbling house with the disintegrating brickwork and weedy overgrown garden – this was his new home.

Giving himself a determined shake, Vince took a deep breath and swung the heavy, ornate knocker that hung off the front door. The fact that it was shaped like a cackling demon with beady eyes staring right at him was kind of cool, but didn’t do much to alleviate his nerves. It seemed like an age before he heard the shuffle of footsteps and saw a shape approaching the frosted glass in a blur of powdery white and deep maroon. The door cracked open. 

“Yes, dear?”

Vince picked up his bag and braced himself. “Hi Nan. It’s me.”

*

On the one hand, Vince thought, it was probably a good thing that his Nan had recently come back from her extended sojourn in Mexico – what had started out as an impromptu flight abroad to escape being tracked by the Russian government’s secret service for the work she did as a double agent during the war had turned into a ten-year stay in the country because she “liked the weather.” At least now, Vince got to stay with actual family instead of being carted around from home to home, from foster family to foster family.

On the other hand, Vince’s Nan was absolutely fucking bonkers. She’d showed him, an hour after he’d arrived, the knitting needles she kept camouflaged in her plant pots, which could be whipped out at a moment’s notice to double up as deadly weapons in case any unsavoury characters showed up uninvited on the doorstep. 

“Always go for the eyes, dear,” she’d said, pouring Vince a cup of tea. “It’s the weakest spot. A direct conduit to the brain. Sugar?”

Vince, who usually drank more sugar than actual tea in his tea just gulped and shook his head. 

Still, after staying a week without sustaining any serious knitting needle-related injuries, and making friends with his Nan’s grumpy black cat, Ralph, Vince thought that, overall, staying at his Nan’s was turning out to be a lot better than most of the other places he’d lived in.

His Nan, for one thing, didn’t scold him for eating sugary crap for breakfast. He’d been worried at first that, being an elderly woman, she’d try to feed him old-people food that came from a tin and looked like something a dog would eat. If his Nan had really spent half her life bringing down enemy tanks on undercover reconnaissance missions as she insisted so fervently that she had, Vince didn’t imagine that it had left her a lot of time to learn how to make the perfect Sunday roast, like the kindly old grannies everyone else at school seemed to have. 

Sure enough, Vince’s Nan couldn’t cook roast, but she was happy to let him eat whatever he wanted, so long as he went down to the Tesco’s up the road to buy it himself with the allowance she gave him every week. The old woman was absolutely _loaded_ – top-secret spywork was apparently very fiscally fruitful – which was why Vince was happy to come home with pockets stuffed full of Cola Bottles and Jelly Babies to supplement his diet without feeling guilty.

All the sweets and chocolates Vince was eating were probably going to give him a heart attack or diabetes, or at the very least make him break out in really bad acne, but he managed to retain his good health _and_ a fantastic complexion, somehow, so Vince didn’t really give a shit. Besides, Vince figured that being an orphan pretty much meant he was allowed to eat as much junk food as he wanted without suffering the usual repercussions; it was a kind of karmic payback from the universe for taking his parents away from him.

The only thing that was making Vince’s stomach churn uncomfortably (although it might also have been the three bags of Sour Skittles he’d eaten in a row) was the prospect of starting at the local school the following week. He’d already moved school three times before. It didn’t really make the idea of doing it all again a fourth any easier.

*

“Nan?”

“Yes, dear?”

Vince edged into the living room where his Nan – Doris, she’d said he could call her, but after a lifetime of calling the people he lived with by their first names, Vince really thought he was owed the right to call the only relative he knew he had by the name every other kid had grown up using – was sitting in a big, sunken armchair. It was a hideous, sun-bleached mauve colour, covered in an ugly orange throw. Vince had liked it right away. “Um. Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

“What, dear?”

“Do I have to go to school?” Vince repeated. “I’m sixteen. Can’t I just get a job or something?” 

Doris put down the eyeglass she was using to examine a twisted, rusty piece of metal that resembled absolutely nothing at all and said, in a tremulous voice, “Vince, dear, school is a very important part of life. You may hate it now, but if you want to do clandestine espionage work for the military, you’ll have to get your A-Levels.”

Vince blinked. “Yeah,” he said, cautiously, “but I don’t think I wanna be a spy.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno.” Vince sat down on the sofa, and an audible poof of dust wheezed from the vomit-green cushions. “Don’t think I’d be any good at it. I’m shit at running. I always come last in the races at school. Plus I ain’t really any good at sneaking around.”

“What _are_ you good at?” Doris asked, putting her fingers together under her chin. Above her head, mounted on the shelf in a perspex case, a stuffed badger was looking glassily in Vince’s direction, its lip curled back in a frozen snarl. 

“Uh, well.” Vince looked away from the stuffed creature and said, brightening up with sudden inspiration, “I’m well into animals. The last place I stayed at, they had rabbits and two cockatiels and a chinchilla, and this massive Dalmatian, too. I got on great with them. The animals, I mean, not the family. So I thought I might work in a zoo?” Vince had always found that animals, unlike people, never seemed to get angry with you for going out shopping or clubbing instead of doing your homework or going to church. “Or maybe a pet store. You don’t need A-Levels to work in a pet store, right?” He glanced at his Nan.

“You never know,” Doris said, darkly. “There may come a time when you’ll have to deal with a renegade amphibian hell-bent on sabotaging the plans you’ve spent months meticulously setting into motion, and if the situation turns really nasty, you’ll wish you had paid more attention to your Biology teacher’s lessons on pond life. Ginger snap?” 

Vince figured that either he'd misheard what his Nan had said, or the old woman was actually just plain barking mad. Thinking it best to remain silent, Vince took a biscuit obediently off the plate she was holding out to him – one of those weirdly elaborate porcelain ones with a frilled, gold edge and twirly, pink flowers painted in the middle. The kind of plate that was pointlessly decorative, since it would either be stacked out of sight in a cupboard or covered in the sloppy remains of someone’s dinner. 

The biscuit was horrible and dry and made Vince’s eyes water with the effort not to cough violently and spray crumbs all over the dingy yellow carpet, but he ate it diligently and resigned himself to the fact that he would without a doubt have to go to school the next day. And if he tried to bunk, Vince thought, his Nan would probably track him down and crash kamikaze-style through the windows to drag him bodily back into the classroom. Doris might have _looked_ like a frail old lady, but Vince had seen the wrestling trophies on the living room shelf, and he didn’t fancy his chances. He was only a thin waif of a boy, although Vince liked to think that his skinny arms, knobbly knees and jutting bone structure helped him rock a kind of new-age Oliver Twist orphan-chic look, which was all the rage in that week’s issue of Cheekbone.

“You’ll be fine tomorrow, dear,” Doris said, smiling warmly, waving the plate under his nose. 

Vince wasn’t so sure, but he took another biscuit.

*

Vince’s first day at school began thusly: he slipped into his boring, navy-coloured uniform, proceeded to ruin the uniform aspect entirely by pinning badges all up his lapels and sticking gold stars down his tie. He followed that up with a hasty breakfast of milk, M&Ms and a ginger biscuit dunked in Nutella, then sauntered down the street to meet his doom. 

Vince didn't actually meet his doom, but he did meet a boy called Leroy. 

Leroy was tall and good-looking with a big smile on his face and bright red beads on the ends of his braided hair. He also had an Aladdin Sane badge on his bag, which Vince took to be a universal sign of instant and fated friendship. After brief introductions, it turned out that the boy called Leroy was in the same year as Vince, so they walked and talked together on the way to school. 

“So where you from?” Leroy asked, curiously. 

“Bit of everywhere, really,” Vince said, shrugging. “Grew up in Croydon 'til I was six but now I move around a lot.” Leroy looked at him expectantly so Vince continued, “Foster homes, you know. Only I get to stay with my Nan now that she’s stopped running from the Russian Government. This is like, the fourth school I’ve been to.”

Seemingly nonplussed by his curious story of origin, Leroy gave Vince a wry grin. “Bet you won’t have been to a school like Old Gregg’s before, though.”

“Old Gregg’s?” Vince puffed out, struggling to match Leroy’s sweeping strides, because Leroy was tall with powerful legs and Vince was maybe a _little_ weighed down with the amount of junk food in his pockets and belly. “Greggory’s Academy?”

“Yeah. We nicknamed it Old Gregg’s, open brackets, Academy of Funk, close brackets.”

“Why?”

“It’s after the guy who founded the school, like, only seven or eight years ago. He had a thing for funk music. I’m not even sure this school’s legit as an institution or anything, but the last school in the neighbourhood burnt down, so we all had to relocate to Old Gregg’s.” Leroy shook his head. “He was mental, Old Gregg. He was the headmaster when the school opened, but then one day he was just gone, and no one knew what happened to him. There was this sixth former who swears she saw him trashing the art department’s supply of watercolours, wearing a wedding dress and howling something about a man called Jefferson. That was right before he disappeared, but no one really knows. Proper crazy, he was. He used to fill his office with empty bottles of Baileys and he was drunk as a bitch during assemblies. And he used to wear seaweed in his hair, too.”

Vince briefly considered the merits of a plant-based hairdo, then remembered that sea salt made him itchy. “I don’t think that would be practical.”

Leroy shrugged. “I don’t think it was a look. I think he had emotional problems.”

“So what’s Old Gregg’s like? The school, I mean.” They were approaching the gates now, ornate silver lettering proclaiming the school’s name funkily in the sun. 

Leroy gestured for Vince to go in. “You’ll see,” he said, as Vince sidled through the gates, instantly swallowed up by the swarm of children and teenagers loitering about the grounds. “A word of advice, though – it’s not really a big deal if you get sent to the headmaster here, because pretty much no one ever gets into serious trouble, but if he asks you to explain yourself to Bollo, just go along with it, okay? Everyone in this place is fucking mental. You just get used to it.”

“Got it.” Vince decided the best thing to do when presented with this strange information was just to take it all in his stride.

A loud, obnoxious bell trilled overhead. Leroy made a face. “Fuck, we missed registration.” He patted Vince on the shoulder. “Never mind. You’re new. If anyone asks, I was showing you around.”

“So what am I meant to do?” Vince asked, looking around, despairingly. “I ain’t got a timetable or nothing.”

“Come on,” Leroy said, encouragingly. “You’ll probably have music first, like me. It’s always a laugh. You can go to reception after lunch and get a proper timetable.” And with that, Leroy dragged Vince sideways into a classroom and towards a set of desks at the back from which a hum of chatter emanated. There was a clatter of chairs as Leroy shoved one of the desks back, and an enthusiastic call of, “Leroy, mate, how’s it going?” from a boy with a pink-tinged face and a properly atrocious bleached-blonde mullet.

“Joey, my man, I’m good.” Leroy went up to the boy and gave him a complicated-looking hi-five-fistbump-handshake, then he turned to Vince. “Vince, this is my mate, Joey Moose. Joey, this is Vince. He’s new. Over there…” Leroy pointed to two guys one row along who seemed to be involved in a deeply riveting conversation. “That’s Montgomery Flange – just call him Monty, his name’s fucking ridiculous – and Howard Moon.” Leroy lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Moon’s a complete loser, okay, but he’s alright, mostly. Just don’t talk to him about jazz. _Trust me_ ,” he added, when Vince looked confused. “And over there,” Leroy continued, a little louder, gesturing to another desk, “those are my girls, Neon and Ultra.”

The two girls looked up and gave Vince a lazy salute. The dark-haired one – Neon – who was wearing a pair of glitterball earrings asked, “So who are you, then?”

“He’s new,” Leroy explained. “First day.”

“He got a name?” Neon looked at Vince through the thick purple mascara on her eyelashes. She had a scarf tied around her neck, bright blue covered in little silver skulls. Vince was entranced. He felt it warranted his special attention that the girl had _glitterball earrings_. He gave her his most winning grin. 

“Vince Noir,” he said, with what he hoped was cool nonchalance. “Rock ‘n’ roll star.”

There was a pause, followed by a burst of derisive laughter. The two girls giggled into their hands, covering their mouths with fluorescent green and pink-tipped fingers. 

“What?” Vince asked, stung, as they continued to coo amusedly. 

“Are you _actually_ a rock star?” Neon asked. 

“Because _we_ are,” the second girl offered. “Rock stars, that is. At least, we will be.”

“We’re in a band.” 

“Kraftwork Orange,” Ultra said, offhand, like being in a real band wasn’t actually the most amazing thing in the world. Vince could feel little hearts popping up in his eyes.

“Ultra’s on drums and bass,” Neon said, pointing to the blonde girl next to her with a flourishing gesture.

“And Neon,” said Ultra, brushing aside her dramatically asymmetrical fringe, “is on guitar and keyboard.” She smiled, lipstick an eye-watering shade of pink.

“What about vocalist?” Vince asked excitedly, feeling dazzled by their bright colours like a magpie in a jewellery shop. “I could be in your band, I’m well good at singing.”

Neon raised a heavily-lined sceptical eyebrow. “We play instruments _and_ sing. We don’t need you for our act.”

“Sorry,” Ultra added, picking at the green varnish on her nails, “but we’re all set.”

Vince visibly deflated. Leroy gave him a sympathetic look. 

“But,” Neon continued, “you could maybe do some back-up vocals sometime. If we ever needed someone.”

“Because we like your hair,” Ultra specified. “It’s the right kind of look for the band.”

Vince, glowing with pride, gave his hair a bit of a pat, careful not to destroy the immaculate back-combed structure. 

Someone behind Vince snorted derisively. “Your hair’s ridiculous.”

Vince blinked and turned, bewildered, to one of the boys Leroy had pointed to earlier. Howard Moon. “’Scuse me?” Vince asked pointedly. 

Moon looked a little abashed as all nearby gazes turned to him, but he nevertheless repeated, “Your hair’s ridiculous,” then added, “Why is your hair that big? No one needs hair that big. It’s too much. It’s ridiculous. It’s a mess of – superfluity.”

Vince whipped out a mirror from his bag to check his own reflection, confirm that his hair _wasn't_ , in fact, a mess, then glared at Moon. “Listen,” he said, “my hair makes grown men weep. It has character. Panache.”

“ _Panache?_ ” Moon echoed, like he was surprised Vince even knew the word.

“Yeah, _panache_ , so fuck you, Mr. ‘superfluity’. And my hair’s not messy, it’s _back-combed_. Have you ever read an issue of _Cheekbone_?”

“You’re like a budgie in a wig,” Moon said, ignoring the question with an air of haughtiness and condescension that Vince thought he didn’t really deserve from a stranger. 

“Whatever,” Vince said, unruffled by the insults. He was so convinced of the fabulousness of his own hair that for him it acted like a powerful shield, deflecting all criticism and negativity with its boosted roots and mirror-like shine. “Like I care what _you’ve_ got to say about hair. Do you even know what a comb is?”

“Yeah, I do,” Howard retorted. He paused, then seemed to realise his comeback was less than witty or cutting, so with a disdainful look, he turned away.

“Just ignore him,” Leroy advised, quietly. “We only keep him around because he’s good for copying notes off of in Geography.”

Vince was about to ask Leroy why Moon was so unnecessarily rude to new acquaintances, but there was a sudden hush in the classroom as someone Vince assumed was the music teacher swept into the room. 

He was unlike any teacher Vince had ever seen. He seemed to be wearing a swishy purple dress that cascaded down to his feet, with spangles and shiny embroidery all around the edges of the sleeves that hung heavy and overlarge on his arms, and there was a huge afro on his head. 

“Welcome, class,” he said, his voice sounding thick, like his mouth was too full of teeth. “Today, we will be trying something new. Not all of you are talented or wise enough to achieve that which we will set out to do, but it is the journey, not the destination, that shapes the character.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the class. They stopped and narrowed on Vince. “What is this?”

“Oh.” Vince stood up. “I’m Vince Noir. Um, I’m new. I’m not sure I’m in the right class?” Vince could feel the class looking at him. He just hoped that the angle was displaying his hair to its full advantage. He looked sideways and caught Moon’s glance. Moon looked away. 

“A new student,” the teacher said, knowingly. “Wild, and untrained in the teachings as laid out by the order of psychedelic monks that we use, here, in this classroom. Do not fear.” He raised his chin. “You will soon understand. I, Rudi van DiSarzio, will teach you.”

“O-kay,” Vince said, uncertainly. He knew he was a bit of a troublemaker sometimes, but he wasn’t sure that _wild and untrained_ was an entirely fair assessment of his character. “Can I ask, though?” Vince continued, as the teacher swished towards the blackboard. “Why’d you wear that dress thing?”

A ripple of laughter crossed the classroom. Mr. DiSarzio puffed up his chest. “It is not a _dress_ ,” he stressed, caressing the purple fabric with his large, brown hand. “It is a _robe_. Now sit down.”

Vince sat down. He wasn’t going to get kicked out of class on his first day, no matter how much he wanted to comment on the teacher’s hideous wardrobe. It wasn’t that Vince had a problem with his teacher wearing a dress, in theory. Vince liked dresses a lot. Dresses were fine. But violently purple, spangled priests’ robes were not. 

“Now.” Rudi took a deep breath. “We are about to embark upon a musical journey, but we cannot hope to succeed if you do not all _open your minds_.” He closed his eyes, and with a gesture, encouraged everyone to do the same. “Let us begin our quest.”

With a last glance at Leroy, who just grinned at Vince and shut his eyes happily like this sort of lesson was perfectly normal, Vince leaned back in his chair, closed his own eyes, and let Rudi’s not-quite-Mexican accent lull him. Forgetting to actually do any work, Vince ended up drifting into a nice daydream where he was onstage, singing to a crowd of hundreds of super-cool and incredibly attractive fans, which was music- _related_ , if not exactly what Mr. DiSarzio probably had in mind.

*

After music, there was an hour of maths with an excitable teacher called Mr. Susan, who was large and lumbering and enveloped in way too many cardigans, and explained everything to them in a sing-song voice. Vince found him irritating after about two minutes, and quickly took to putting his head down on the desk and muttering the names of as many Rolling Stones songs as he could remember to distract himself from wanting to throw biros at the back of Mr. Susan’s head. Following maths was art, taught by a large, lipsticked lady who insisted, with a purr, on being called Miss Eleanor, and was, Vince decided, altogether too familiar with the students.

“Does she have to look at me like that?” Vince asked out of the side of his mouth to Leroy, slightly panicked, as Miss Eleanor curled a bit of hair around her finger and licked her lips as she moulded a lump of clay suggestively with her other hand. 

“I told you, you get used to it,” Leroy said with a grin. “No one’s been arrested yet, so…”

“That’s reassuring.”

The bell soon rang for lunch, and Vince escaped gratefully to the cafeteria. Vince’s Nan had given him a couple of quid for lunch, and even though every canteen at every school he’d ever been to had been fucking awful, most schools did a good plate of chips at the very least, and Vince was starving. 

“Oi, Vince,” Leroy called out, who was clutching sandwiches to his chest. “I’ll save you a seat, yeah? We’ll be at the back.”

Vince nodded and got into the lunch queue with a tray. He got to the food counter expecting one of those nice old dinner ladies you got in most schools, but was instead confronted by a gnarled, grimacing old man with stringy, grey hair, a large, hooked nose, and a pointed chin covered in warts. He appeared to be wearing an old, dusty top hat and tails. Vince paused, wondering how much horror was evident on his face in that moment.

The man behind the counter grunted, one of his eyes ringed in an inexplicable chalky circle, like the ghost of a monocle, which served to make him look even more unhinged and repulsive. “Whaddaya want?”

“Uh.” Vince tried not to recoil. “Chips?”

“Chips!” the old man spat. “What d’ya mean, _chips_?” He shook the ladle in his hand at Vince. “It’s not even on the menu, boy. And you’ve got the gall to come in ‘ere askin’ for _chips_. You’ll ‘ave what everyone else ‘ere is ‘aving – pie and mash. Nothin’ wrong with the classic combo of pie with mash. That’s good food, boy. Good, cockney food, son. Oh, I remember the days when pie and mash was the staple diet of any respectable institution – none of this _chips_ business, no macaroni cheese, we didn’t even have spaghetti in my day, boy.” The old man whirled the ladle around his head. Vince stepped back. “Spaghetti! Me old cockney ears couldn’t believe it; some lad comes up to me and asks for spaghetti. What’s that? I asked ‘im. Spaghetti? Who d’ya fink I am, boy? Do I look like someone who serves spaghetti? This ain’t Italy, you ponce, you’ll have pie and mash, like the others! He didn’t like that, so I just hit him over the head with his tray.” The man fell silent.

“Uh.” Vince blinked. He held his plate out at arm’s length. “I’ll have the mash, then.”

“’Course you will,” the man grunted, seemingly done with his rant, and ladled a sloppy mulsh onto Vince’s plate. Vince made a face and moved away as quickly as possible, hurrying to the back of the dining hall where Leroy was sat with Joey, Neon, Ultra, and Moon. Moon didn’t seem to be joining in with the conversation, though, and while the girls beside him were digging into tasty-looking baguettes, Moon was picking carefully at a thin sandwich of sliced brown bread cut into precise triangles that he’d taken from a square, plastic lunchbox that had a picture of a grinning man in a grey suit holding a trumpet stuck to the front. _Freak_ , Vince thought. 

“Your dinner lady’s a bit weird, ain’t she?” Vince said, sitting down opposite Leroy, next to Joey, whose face was covered in crisp crumbs.

“Not a dinner lady,” Joey interjected in a thick Australian accent. “Just a grumpy old man.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Vince poked at his pie and mash dubiously. “He rambled for ages about spaghetti. What’s his problem?”

“No-one knows,” Leroy shrugged. “We just call him the Cockney Nutjob. He serves pie and mash every single fucking day. Friday, though,” Leroy waggled a finger, “that’s special.”

Vince took a bite of his food. It tasted okay, for a school dinner. “How come?”

“It’s eels on Fridays.”

Vince choked on his mouthful. The mash suddenly felt unpleasantly slimy on his tongue. “ _Eels_?” he asked, disbelieving. “I didn’t even know you could _eat_ eels.”

“Oh, you can eat eels, alright,” Neon said with a shudder that jangled her mirrorball earrings.

“Just not when they’re still alive,” Ultra specified, patting Neon on the shoulder.

Further down the table, Moon was staring blankly ahead, a far-off look in his eyes. “Eels,” he said, monotonous. “Eels.”

“There was a bad time,” Leroy started.

Vince looked worriedly at Moon, who was starting to twitch. “Do I even want to know…?”

“Probably not,” Joey said, shaking his head. He reached over and smacked Moon on the back. “Come on, Moon-O, snap out of it.”

Moon looked at Vince, his eyes wide. “Eels?”

“The point is,” Leroy said, looking at Vince sympathetically, “you might wanna start bringing packed lunches from now on. I’m not sure the guy’s even a real cook or anything. Rumour has it he slashed up all the old dinner ladies with a knife, got rid of the competition and took their jobs.”

Vince stared at Leroy.

“Hey,” Leroy said, holding his hands up. “It’s just a rumour, mate, it’s probably not true. But I told you, didn’t I? You ain’t never seen a school like Old Gregg’s before.”

Vince pushed his plate away. 

“Aren’tcha gonna eat anything?” Neon asked, mouth full. 

“Not this. I’ve got back-up.” Vince pulled a packet of Starmix from his pocket with a grin. “Real food.”

Moon, who seemed to have shaken his eels-induced trance, snorted. “That isn’t real food. That’s highly concentrated doses of sugar set into funny shapes to entertain simple children and promote tooth decay.”

Vince stuffed a couple of jelly rings into his mouth and widened his grin. Moon made a disgusted face. Vince chewed obnoxiously, then swallowed. “This _is_ real food. You’re just boring.” Vince gestured towards Howard’s limp, brown-bread-based luncheon. “And you’re jealous ‘cos my food’s more fun than yours.”

“I’m not,” Moon said petulantly, and he took a defensive bite of his sandwich, but Vince saw his eyes straying to the sherbert-sprinkled packet of Starmix on the table with a guarded, but distinct look of jealousy. 

“Come on, slags,” Leroy said after a moment, scrunching tin-foil up in his fist. “We’d better get to Chem.”

Everyone groaned, but stood up, brushing crumbs off their blazers and lobbing bundled-up rubbish into the bins before making their way out of the dining room, chatting happily. Moon, Vince noticed, lagged a little behind. 

“Oi, Moon,” he said, falling into step with him. 

“My name’s Howard, you know,” Moon said moodily, hunching his shoulders. “You call everyone else by their first names.”

“Alright, Howard,” Vince said. He pulled out the packet of Starmix from his pocket. “You want it? I’m full.”

Howard eyed the packet warily as if it contained something strange and evil. “Why?”

Vince rolled his eyes. “I dunno, ‘cos I ate too much? I don’t want it, seriously, you can finish it.”

Gingerly, Howard reached out and took the proffered packet. “Well. I might save it for later.” He tucked it into his blazer pocket. 

“Whatever,” Vince said, with a laugh. “Do what you want with it.” He winked at Howard. “Catch you later, freak.” And with that, he scampered off to catch up with Leroy, leaving Howard looking a little perplexed behind him.


	2. No smoke without fire

Vince’s first day came to an abrupt end when, barely a minute after picking up their bags to get to chemistry, a fuzzy, spaced-out voice echoed over the tannoy which, Vince discovered after looking wildly about to locate the source of the noise, was shaped like a leering gargoyle head suspended from the ceiling. 

_“School’s been cancelled this afternoon,”_ came the distant call. _“I can’t find my frog, so we can’t have class ‘til it comes back. Now get lost.”_

The brief broadcast closed with a three-note, atonal jingle on the xylophone, then the tannoy fell silent. A split-second later, the happy chattering of forty or so suddenly-liberated schoolchildren filled the room as chairs scraped the floor and doors swung open to let the kids out, milling in the corridors. 

“Wait,” Vince said blankly. “School’s been cancelled?”

“Oh yeah,” Leroy said. “That happens a lot. Dr. Naboo, the headmaster, he’s a bit – well. Scatty. Best to scarper fast before he changes his mind and school’s back on.” Leroy tugged Vince by the sleeve. “Come on, walk with us.”

So after having spent only half a day at school, Vince found himself walking back home with Leroy, Ultra and Neon, while Joey and Monty took the bus. Moon – or Howard – walked sullenly behind them, as if just being there was a great sacrifice on his part.

“What _is_ his deal?” Vince asked Leroy in a low voice, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Howard’s sloping figure. “Why’s he hanging back like a freak?”

“He asked Ultra out over the summer, is why,” Leroy answered in a whisper. “She turned him down, and then it got really embarrassing, ‘cos he can’t take a hint.” He made a face. “There was some stuff about him crying outside her window into her fish-pond. Almost killed the carp. And people say he was found in her garden hiding in the bushes with binoculars. It’s just rumours, I think, but – you know…” He trailed off, stifling a laugh. “No smoke without fire.”

Vince glanced over his shoulder. Howard was glaring at the floor, his hair, if possible, even limper than before in the drizzly, grey afternoon. 

“Right, this is where I leave you, mate,” said Leroy as they came to a fork in the road that disappeared between a block of flats and a scuffy-looking playground. “I gotta head off – my mum wants me to watch my baby sister while she gets her hair done.”

“Oh. Okay.” Vince lifted a hand in a wave, feeling kind of disappointed that his new friend was scampering off so soon. “I guess – it was nice to meet you, Leroy.”

“Likewise.” Leroy gave him a grin and slapped him on the shoulder. He saluted the others. “See you lot tomorrow.”

“We’re off, too,” said Neon. “Band practice.” She and Ultra nodded at Vince and Howard dismissively, and did a weird, simultaneous gesture involving a clenched fist moving in a cross over their foreheads. Vince couldn’t tell if it was some kind of freaky, religious symbol or some hip, indie greeting he didn’t know about. He just nodded back at them, trying to look unphased and in-the-know. He also had to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting out, “Oi, wanna go out with me sometime?” (to one or the other, or both, he didn’t mind). 

“Yeah. Right. See you around,” Vince said to their retreating backs. “I mean, see you tomorrow. At school. It was nice meeting you – both of you. It was – I mean, I like your hai—”

“Whatever,” Ultra called, laughing, over her shoulder. 

Vince shoved his hands in his pockets as the girls went down the road. He glanced sideways to see Howard hovering there with an annoying sort of look on his face.

“What?” Howard asked, when he caught Vince glaring at him. 

“ _What_?” Vince asked back, pointedly. 

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were looking annoying.”

Howard shifted his bag up on his shoulder and scoffed. “It’s nothing.”

“No, what?” Vince pressed, irritated. 

“It’s nothing,” Howard repeated, loftily. Then, when Vince crossed his arms, said, “They won’t go out with you, you know. Either of them.”

“I don’t want to go out with them,” Vince retorted. Then, too late, amended, “I mean, who won’t what?”

Howard rolled his eyes. “ _Them_. Ultra and Neon. They won’t go for a brainless twit like you. Girls like dark characters. Tortured souls. Deeply intellectual men.”

Vince made a choked noise of disbelief. “As _if_!” he exclaimed. “Girls like guys who take ‘em out, who like to have _fun_. Anyway,” he added as an afterthought. “I’m not brainless. Just ‘cos I don’t wear _corduroy_ ,” he emphasised with disgust, looking at Howard’s offensively brown jacket, “don’t mean I’m stupid. I like bright colours, I’m not retarded.”

“Whatever,” Howard said airily, with that annoying look on his face again. “I’m just trying to save you from looking like an idiot.”

“What, like you did, you mean?” Vince bit back, brushing his black hair off the shoulders of his vintage, deep-emerald, faux-fur-trimmed coat that was decidedly _not_ corduroy.

“What d’you mean?” Howard asked, eyes narrowed.

“Like you,” Vince repeated, hands on his hips. “You asked Ultra out, dincha? And she turned you down. Leroy told me about the binoculars. Some Don Juan _you_ are.”

Howard glared at Vince, his cheeks flushing. “It was – I caught her at a bad time, that’s all. She was tired. There was a noisy crowd. She misheard me. And the thing with the binoculars was _just a rumour_.” 

Vince let out a laugh. “No smoke without fire, mate. And _you’re_ giving _me_ advice about girls? Get lost. It’s okay though.” He patted Howard on the shoulder. “You can learn from me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Howard said, grumpily, shrugging off Vince’s hand. “I don’t need help from someone who thinks accessorising is the answer to existential ennui. And anyway, I know plenty about girls, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, alright,” Vince said, disbelievingly. “Don’t even lie, you know if you wore a hat or a poncho or a couple of bangles it’d cheer you right the fuck up. And I totally know what _ennui_ means, so don’t try to fob me off with your fancy-arse words. Now, come on.” He flounced off a few steps, then stopped, and looked over his shoulder to where Howard was still looking moodily at the pavement. “Are you coming, or what?” Vince called. 

Howard looked up, still glaring. “Why should I come with you?”

Vince rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Come _on_. Where do you live?” 

“Corner of Colobos Avenue.”

“Yeah? Me too.” Vince stomped his foot, impatiently. “So come on, then! I don’t wanna walk home by myself like a fucking loser.”

Howard looked at Vince warily, then shuffled quickly to catch up with him.

“It’s okay,” Vince said into the silence as they walked. “I’m over how you called me a brainless twit before. I don’t hold grudges. Even over people with really bad fashion sense.” Vince bared his teeth in a grin. “And I don’t bite; you don’t have to look at me like that.” When Howard didn’t answer, Vince rolled his eyes, again. “How come you’re always so tense?”

“I’m not tense,” Howard mumbled, hunching his shoulders up.

Vince laughed. “You so are. You look like you’re gonna snap right in half, you’re that tense.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped talking nonsense at me.”

“Alright.” Vince held his hands up. “I’m just saying. You’ve got anger issues, Howard.”

“ _No I don’t_.”

“Okay, fine.” Vince shrugged. They walked in silence for a little while longer, and out of the corner of his eye, Vince thought he saw Howard’s shoulders lower just a fraction. “You know,” he said, after a couple of minutes. 

“What?” Howard looked at him warily. 

Vince looked down at his fingernails, where all the black polish was chipping off in crumbly flakes. “Bet it turns out Ultra and Neon are lezzers, anyway.”

Howard let out a surprised laugh. “What?” 

“Lesbians. They’re in a band together, aren’t they? Ain’t got time for guys.” 

Howard looked at Vince sideways, a slight smile on his face. _Finally_. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Vince said, nodding. “It’s a shame though. Neon’s _well_ hot.” 

“Too hot for you, you skinny cockney twiglet,” Howard said flippantly, then he looked surprised like he hadn’t meant to say anything at all.

Vince made a face of outrage, then grinned. “Well she’s definitely too hot for _you_ , you lumbering northern gardener.”

“She’s too hot for either of us, probably.”

“Just as well she’s a lesbian then.”

“She might be.”

“Either way,” Vince said, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m not even interested.”

“Yeah,” Howard said. “Me neither.”

There was a weird pause. “So. Hey,” Vince said, changing the subject and looking around. “You know I actually live two minutes down the road from you?”

“Okay,” Howard said, uncertainly. “I mean, no, I didn’t know. I mean, is that good?”

Vince laughed, wondering. “You’re an actual freak, you are. So can I walk with you to school tomorrow, then?”

“If you want,” Howard said, frowning. “You’re not a kid. You don’t need my permission.”

Vince grabbed Howard by the arm, grinning. “Yes I do. Please walk me to school, Howard?” He fluttered his eyelashes. “Please? I don’t like walking by myself. _Please?_ ”

“Fuck off, you’re ridiculous,” Howard said, shaking Vince off him, half-amused, half-terrified that someone was clinging so insistently to his precious muffin-coloured jacket. “Okay, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow at eight-twenty, sharp.”

Vince released Howard’s arm. “Okay. I might be a _bit_ late, though. Ain’t good with mornings.”

Howard glared. “Well, I need to get to the library before it becomes overrun by last-minute slackers trying to finish their homework before first period. So if you want to walk with me you have to be there at eight-twenty, on-the-dot.”

“Okay,” Vince assured him. “Ish.”

“I mean it. _Eight-twenty._ ”

“Yeah, roughly.”

“Precisely.”

“I promise. Eight-twenty.” Vince grinned. “Approximately.”

Red in the face, Howard made a noise of outrage and stomped away up the drive to his house. 

“Bye!” Vince called, gleefully. “So I’ll see you at eight-thirty, yeah?”

The door to Howard’s house slammed shut. Vince cackled to himself all the way home.

*

The next morning, Vince sauntered cheerily up to Howard’s door and rang the doorbell. He was kind of looking forward to school that day, especially if it was going to be cancelled halfway through again, and the whole making-friends thing had gone pretty well, so he didn’t need to worry about sitting alone in classes. 

The door swung open, and Howard Moon’s grumpy face emerged. 

“Hi!” Vince said brightly. He looked at his watch. “It’s eight-twenty.”

“My watch says eight-twenty-five,” Howard retorted, pulling the door wider and stepping out to close it behind him. “And my watch is perfectly synchronised with Big Ben.”

“And who the fuck ever decided that Big Ben was the holy grail of time?” Vince asked, pointedly. “My watch is synchronised with the bus timetables in Camden.”

“Figures,” Howard said, snorting. 

Vince just shrugged. So what if Howard didn’t think knowing Camden like the back of your hand was important? It was his loss. They walked in silence for a while, as Vince fished into his blazer pocket for a packet of Starburst. He unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth. “You’re kind of moody in the mornings, arent’cha, Howard?”

Howard gave him a look. “Well, we can’t all be chirpy little peacocks, can we?”

“Come on, cheer up, old man – have a Starburst.” Vince held out a purple one in the palm of his hand. Rather graciously, Vince thought, because the purple ones were his absolute favourites. 

“We’re the same age!” Howard grumped, but he took the proffered Starburst. “Is this what you eat for breakfast?”

“Uh-huh,” Vince said, already concentrating on unwrapping the next one. “What do you eat? Lemme guess. Muesli? Bran flakes? Anything brown and boring, I bet.”

“A high-fibre breakfast is the staple of any good diet,” Howard said primly, but Vince noticed that he immediately looked less grumpy once he started chewing on the purple sweet. 

“Sure, okay.” Vince grinned at him. “So, what have we got today?”

Howard made a face. “P.E with Fossil first thing.”

Vince chewed on an orange Starburst. “Is that bad?”

“Of course it’s bad, it’s _P.E_.” Howard stressed the syllables with intense hatred dripping from his voice. “And it’s _Fossil_.”

“Is he awful?”

“He’s evil,” Howard said vehemently. “Not to mention inconceivably stupid.”

“Ah, well.” Vince dismissed Howard’s words with a wave of his hand. “P.E’s just a bit of running around, kicking a ball. It’s not the end of the world, right?” Vince had always thought P.E was kind of fun. Even though the boys at his last school had made fun of his skinny, knobbly legs and his long hair pulled back off his forehead with a tie-dye scarf, they all left him alone when they realised he was actually half-decent at football and was almost always on the winning team.

“Yeah, well,” Howard said darkly, “you haven’t met Fossil, yet.”

They were at the gates now, and Howard’s ominous words seemed to have shifted something in the atmosphere. The school towered before him, leaving him with a strange sensation of doom. “Howard,” Vince said uncertainly. “Howard. _Howard._ Howard!” Vince pulled Howard’s arm as he walked through the gates. “It’s not going to be that bad, is it?”

“Hey now, little man,” Howard said, stepping back and putting a placating hand on Vince’s shoulder, although the expression on his face was anything but encouraging. “No matter what torturous, humiliating things Fossil coerces you into doing, you just stick with Howard Moon here, and you’ll be fine.”

Somehow, Vince found Howard’s words less than reassuring.

*

“ALRIGHT YOU NUMB-NUTS, KEEP IT MOVING! HURRY UP! TIME IS TICKING AND MY ASS IS GETTING COLD. PUT SOME PANTS ON, BERGSTEIN!”

Vince jumped in shock as the voice of the P.E teacher echoed throughout the clammy, smelly changing-rooms. He glanced at Leroy who was shrugging on a polo shirt, then around at the rest of the boys who were putting on their kit, looking remarkably unconcerned that a short, squat, tubby man in a pale blue shirt and fluorescent pink sweatband was standing on a chair, breathing like a winded horse. Vince pulled on his other sock. 

The man bared his teeth and gesticulated wildly at them, the buttons on his shirt straining against his pot-belly. “HURRY UP, YOU FREAKS!” he shouted, spittle flying from between his lips and teeth. Vince recoiled slightly. “YOU ENJOY WASTING MY TIME? YOU THINK YOU’RE SPECIAL? YOU THINK YOUR MOMMY LOVES YOU? WELL, YOU’RE WRONG, YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SQUEAKY-PIPS! SHE DOESN’T LOVE YOU! YOU’RE TOO SMALL, FOR A START!”

Vince caught Leroy’s eye and stared at him, mouthing _what the fuck?_ Leroy just rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. Right, Vince thought, of course. Apparently teachers who were borderline insane were a common occurrence at Old Gregg’s. He squatted down to tie his shoes.

“HEY YOU! YOU, OVER THERE! WITH THE – WITH THE FACE.”

Vince looked up from his dirty trainers to see the teacher – Mr. Fossil, Howard had said – pointing at him from his unsteady position atop the plastic chair. “Uh.” Vince shot a look at Leroy again, who just shrugged unhelpfully. “Yes, sir?”

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Vince frowned. “Getting changed, sir,” he said, in a way he hoped conveyed the unsaid _you crazy fucker_. 

“WELL HURRY UP!” Mr. Fossil spat. “WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY.”

Vince stood up, feeling a little annoyed at this unnecessary victimisation. “I’m _ready_ ,” he said, irritated.

“Alright, alright,” Mr. Fossil said, waving at Vince dismissively, his voice marginally less ear-shattering. “Keep the silky-soft hairs on that pretty head of yours. We need to get into teams.” Ignoring Vince’s disturbed look, Mr. Fossil peered around the changing rooms. “MOON,” he barked, suddenly, causing the boys to jump. “Get your ugly, lumpy ass into the equipment cupboard and bring out the hockey sticks.”

“All – all of them?” Howard faltered, looking dismayed.

“DO I LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT TO YOU?” Mr. Fossil screeched, windmilling his arms as he almost overbalanced. “GET ME THOSE HOCKEY STICKS PRONTO, OR I’LL BE ONTO YOU LIKE A BICYCLE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF A CANAL IN AMSTERDAM.”

Helplessly, Howard stumbled out of the room to the equipment cupboard. Vince gave him a sympathetic glance on his way out that he hoped covered up the giggle bubbling up in his chest. Howard’s look of utter dismay was almost comical.

“Now,” Fossil said, hopping down from his chair. He pointed at Vince. “You, team captain. And you…” He pointed at Leroy. “Uh, other team captain. Get to it! Outside in five.” And with that, he strutted out. 

“Get to what?” Vince asked aloud to the group of boys in the changing room who were all looking rather resigned.

“Who knows?” Leroy said, shrugging. “Fossil will change the rules as soon as we get outside anyway, so there’s no point trying to understand.”

There was a loud clatter from a distance, suddenly, and a pained cry that faded into silence.

Vince and Leroy looked at each other. “Howard,” they said. Leroy rolled his eyes.

“I’ll go get him,” Vince said, holding back a laugh. “Tell Fossil I’ll be out in a sec.”

Vince scampered off towards where he thought the noise had come from and stopped in front of a set of heavy, white doors behind which shuffling and grunting and the occasional sob could be heard. 

“Howard?” Vince called out. “Need a hand?”

“No!” Howard called back vehemently. “I am completely capable of executing this task with speed and efficiency by myself. I’m handling this. You’ll just complicate things.”

Vince muffled a laugh behind his hand. “You’re an idiot,” he replied, cheerfully. “I’m coming in.”

“No, don’t—”

Vince pulled open the doors. Howard was standing in the large cupboard space, crouched, legs tense and trembling, supporting a precariously tilted stack of gym mats with one hand, and a broken shelf of tennis rackets with the other. All around his feet were rolling balls of various shapes and sizes. The hockey sticks seemed to be stuck at the back between the badminton nets and a set of blunted javelins. 

“Oh, right.” Vince leaned up against the doorframe, grinning. “Yeah, you are handling this.”

“Shut up,” Howard sniped. It looked like his arms were about to give up. “I’m just – doing some stretches. This is the best place to do stretches. Gets your muscles good and warmed-up.”

“Cool.” Vince smirked. “Well, I’ve already done my stretches, so I guess I’ll see you outside.” He turned to leave and got a few paces into the hall before Howard called him back.

“Vince, wait. Vince!” Howard suddenly sounded a bit desperate. “Look, just – help me out, yeah?”

“I thought you said you were handling it,” Vince said, airily.

Howard glowered at him. “Don’t be a prick,” he snapped. “I’m doing fine. I just need a bit of a hand.”

Vince thought it was rather unfair of Howard to call him a prick, since Howard was obviously a liar, obviously incompetent, and obviously ungrateful, but Vince was totally the bigger man, here, and Howard’s face was starting to go purple from the strain. Also, Vince could probably make fun of Howard for days with this, and that was worth something. “Alright,” he said. He edged into the cupboard around Howard and righted the collapsing shelf and the wonky gym mats. 

“Thank God.” Howard let go with a sigh and dropped his tired arms to his sides.

Vince didn’t have a moment to respond before the shelves gave a great groan and everything came crashing to the floor, bringing with it the javelins, badminton nets, and the big pile of hockey sticks. Howard blinked at the mess, then looked up at Vince in dismay.

“Oops?” Vince offered. 

“Vince, you idiot!” Howard hissed. “We’re going to get into so much trouble!”

“Nah,” Vince said, waving him off. “Bet Fossil’s forgotten all about us. We’ve been gone fifteen minutes and he hasn’t sent anyone to come looking.”

“But—”

“Just leave it,” Vince said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll just say we left it tidy but the shelves must’ve collapsed afterwards.”

“What about the hockey sticks?” Howard whispered, looking about wildly. “They’re buried under all the – stuff!”

“Leave it!” Vince repeated. He stepped forward and grabbed Howard’s arm to stop him from flailing about in a panic. “I’m telling you, I bet Fossil’s forgotten he even asked you to get ‘em. Let’s bunk the class.”

“What?” Howard looked scandalised.

“ _Bunk_ ,” Vince said earnestly. “Come on, it’s easy. We’ll get back in time for registration, so nobody’ll know.” Vince was getting excited, now. Even though this school seemed far more lax about rules than any previous schools he’d been to, he always got a thrill from sneaking out of a big, fenced-in building and escaping into an afternoon of stolen freedom. 

“I don’t know, Vince,” Howard was saying, primly. “That’s breaking the rules, and an education is crucial for—”

“Oh, don’t be so boring, Howard,” Vince scoffed. “You’ve got to break the rules once in a while.”

Howard bit his lip. Vince looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent, encouraging. Vince was pretty good at getting people to do what he wanted. And even though Howard wasn’t really his first choice when it came to people he’d most like to spend a day off school with, he wasn’t about to bunk off by himself while everyone else was caught up in lessons. Howard would have to do. 

“Well,” Howard faltered, as Vince tugged on his sleeve, pleading with him repeatedly. “Alright. Just this once.”

Triumphant, Vince led Howard out of the equipment cupboard and back to the changing rooms where they quickly slipped back into their normal uniforms, forgoing blazers in an attempt to look less like students who were supposed to be in school. Then, they edged out of the changing room doors, taking care to wait until Fossil, who was a good distance away on the sports field, had turned his back. He did seem to have forgotten about the hockey sticks, and was barking out instructions to the class, making the boys jump up and down and do some hilarious kicks and bends in what looked like some twisted approximation of a dance lesson. 

“And that is why,” Vince murmured to Howard, who still looked skittish and unsure, “bunking lessons is sometimes necessary. To be spared that kind of humiliation.”

Fossil’s voice carried over to them as they heard him say, “BERGSTEIN, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THOSE LEGS? KICK _HIGHER_. AND YOU LICK YOUR LIPS _FIRST_.”

“Yeah, alright,” Howard muttered back, and he grabbed Vince’s arm as Fossil stalked down the field towards someone else who Vince thought slightly guiltily was possibly Leroy. Howard pulled Vince into a run through the school fence and they escaped out of the grounds. 

*

“So, Howard,” Vince said, his mouth stuffed full of gloriously greasy chips dripping in salt and vinegar. He swallowed noisily. “What’s your favourite band?”

They were sitting on a park bench under a droopy old tree in the middle of what was less a park, and more a patch of grass struggling for life in the middle of a loud and smoky town centre. After legging it out of the school building, Vince and Howard had hopped onto the bus, stuffing their ties into their pockets so as not to raise questions from passers-by (although, Vince had argued, _his_ tie made him look indie-chic and fashionable, so keeping it _on_ would have helped, rather than hindered their attempt to look less like schoolboys skiving off.) They'd talked a little about Old Gregg's, and Howard had divulged a few stories about the horrible things crazy Mr. Fossil made them do, but now Vince wanted to get down to serious conversation.

“My what?” Howard asked, distracted, looking mildly disgusted by the way Vince was chomping into the chips that they’d bought from the takeaway lodged neatly between a dusty old bookstore and a children's gadget shop.

“Favourite band,” Vince repeated, picking up another chip. “Go on, impress me.”

“Uh.” Howard shrugged and prodded at the limp and soggy chips in his hand that were soaking grease into the little cardboard box. He’d wanted a sandwich from _Pret-à-Manger_ , but Vince had argued that the food in there was for pretentious twats and was always stupidly overpriced, and that had been that, until Vince had realised he didn’t actually have enough change in his pockets for the chips, so Howard had ended up paying for two lots of chips that he hadn’t even wanted in the first place. It was nice of him, Vince thought. “Weather Report?”

“Boo.” Vince made a face. “Trust you to pick something that sounds like a geography lesson.”

“Have you even _heard_ of them?”

“No,” Vince admitted.

“There you go,” Howard said, loftily. “You’re uncultured and ignorant in the ways of jazz fusion and funk rock.”

“Fuck off, I know about rock. Just not the freakish, deformed type you listen to.”

“I do not listen to _freakish_ music, sir,” Howard stressed. “You ever heard of Miles Davis? John Coltrane?”

Vince shrugged. He wiped his greasy hands on a paper napkin, bundled it up and chucked it in the vague direction of an overflowing bin. “Old guys, right? Played, like trumpets and shit?”

Howard made an outraged, choking sound. “ _Trumpets and shit?_ ”

Vince cackled. “Oh my god, your face is hilarious. Wish I could take a picture.” He made a clicking motion with his fingers. “This is Howard Moon’s _Thou Shalt Not Blaspheme Against Jazz_ face.” Howard still looked appalled, so Vince put a soothing hand on his arm. “Come on, mate, I’m joking. I swear. I know stuff about jazz. My Nan was playing the Boogie Woogie Blue Plate on repeat last weekend while she did the hoovering.”

“Well Louis Jordan was more _swing_ than jazz, but—”

“Howard,” Vince interrupted. “That weren’t an invitation to talk more about boring jazz _nuances_. Can’t you talk about something interesting?”

Howard fell silent. He fidgeted with the tie that he’d taken off, wrapping it and unwrapping it around his hand, frowning. 

“Don’t sulk, Howard,” Vince said, poking his moody companion in the side. “I was only kidding.”

"I'm not sulking."

"What's this then, eh?" Vince teased, reaching up to pinch Howard's cheeks. "Looks like a sulk to me."

"Don't – touch me!" Howard snapped, batting Vince's hand away.

"Howard," Vince said, leaning around Howard's wayward flailing to grip his shoulder and give it a shake. "You have _got_ to lighten up." Vince sort of astounded that anyone could be this wound-up all the time. Obviously, Vince had been presented with a mission. He was like some kind of messiah for the socially-crippled. Everyone had a fun side. You just needed to know how to draw it out properly, and Vince intended to learn everything about Howard he could that would help him in his mission.

Howard, however, far from lightening up, seemed to have reached breaking point. “HOW am I SUPPOSED to LIGHTEN UP?” he burst out, beating his fist down on the graffiti-covered bench and making Vince let go of him as he jumped in surprise. “We’re sitting in the UGLIEST excuse for a park this town has ever seen, in BROAD DAYLIGHT at the risk of being caught FLAGRANTLY disregarding SCHOOL RULES, while you have the time of your life stuffing your face with slimy CHIPS and throwing nothing but INSULTS and ABUSE my way. I have done absolutely NOTHING to deserve this treatment, you’re RUDE about my music taste, I’m COLD and I want to put my BLAZER back on—” Howard took a breath. “And I didn’t even want to bunk off in the first place,” he finished, crossly.

Vince blinked, taken aback. That was pretty much the most he’d heard Howard talk since he’d met him. He cracked a smile and sidled closer to Howard. “It’s funny when you get wound up,” he said, teasing.

“What are you – stop it,” Howard said, annoyed, shifting away. “Stop – _sidling_.”

Vince sidled up some more. “Howard,” he said. “Howard, Howard, Howard.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a king-sized Yorkie bar. “Wanna share?” He looked at Howard, all innocent and benign. Howard just looked back, unimpressed. “Oh, come on,” Vince said, impatiently. “This is me saying sorry, okay? It’s a peace offering. Sorry for winding you up, and sorry for dragging you out of school even though I _know_ you’d much rather be kick-boxing with Fossil or making clay phalluses with Miss Eleanor. I just thought we could have fun, you know?” He smiled at Howard, and tried to make it look genuine. He wasn’t very good at _looking_ genuine, even if his intentions were just that, but Howard seemed like the sort of person who needed a _lot_ of reassurance, or else he’d just bolt, and Vince didn’t fancy spending the rest of the day alone in town. 

“Well…” Howard hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” Vince said again, offering the Yorkie bar up. “We can go half and half. I didn’t mean to wind you up _that_ much. I just think you’re funny.”

Howard’s hand, the one going towards the chocolate, faltered. “You think I’m – funny?” He frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Vince said, ripping the chocolate bar open and snapping it in half. “You’re dead paranoid, you are.” He pressed one half of the bar into Howard’s hand. “No, you’re just… I don’t know. You’re funny. It's a good thing. Okay?”

Howard closed his hand around the chocolate. “Okay,” he said, finally. He even cracked a smile. 

There was a moment’s pause. Vince bit into his chocolate, feeling oddly warm inside and not quite knowing why. It was probably because the chocolate tasted so good. “You’d better enjoy that,” he said. “Yorkies are my favourite.”

Howard cocked his head. “I thought the adverts say they’re not for girls?”

Vince let out a surprised laugh around his mouthful of chocolate, and stuck two fingers up at Howard. 

“See,” Howard teased with a wobbly smile, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. He grabbed hold of Vince’s fingers, nails tipped with electric blue nail varnish, one adorned with a twirly silver ring. “You’re such a girl. You’re not allowed to eat that chocolate, I think you should give it all to me.”

“Fuck off!” Vince said, shaking himself free of Howard’s grip. “I ain’t _that_ girly. And anyway, you can’t have it – it’s all covered in my slobber now.” He waved the chewed-off chocolate bar in Howard’s face. 

Howard grimaced. “Yeah, you can keep it.”

Vince grinned as he bit off another chunk and the two finished their snacks off quietly. He had a weird, happy feeling in his chest, almost like he wanted to grab Howard in a hug to congratulate him for having a sense of humour, but he thought Howard probably wouldn’t like it. Still, he pressed his knee into the side of Howard’s leg, as if he were saying something, like, _hey, we’re okay._

For a second, Howard was still, but then he pressed back with his leg, and with a small smile on his face that looked like he was secretly pleased but trying not to show it, he said, “We should probably get back to school.”


	3. A ragamuffin from the streets

So the weird thing was, Vince was actually enjoying school, more so than he had done in years. Granted, it was because half of the classes were arbitrarily cancelled and the other half were taught by the weirdest teachers Vince had ever seen, which was kind of funny, but it was still strange to be having _this_ much fun at school. 

“Nan,” Vince said to his Nan, one evening when they were sitting in the lounge in front of the telly, watching X-Factor and knitting (she was watching X-Factor, _he_ was knitting; Vince had become unreasonably good at fashioning all sorts of trendy accessories out of wool). “Am I staying here for good?”

“If you like, dear,” his Nan said. “We haven’t had to worry about the KGB since December ’91. And the Soviets aren’t interested in you, anyway.”

“Oh. Good?” Vince glanced at his Nan, confused, but she was gazing mildly at the TV. “I’d quite like to stay, y’know.” He looked back down at his knitting, a balaclava in a startling shade of magenta. 

“I’d quite like you to stay, too. You’re a good boy, and it’s nice having someone around. It does get rather too quiet around here.” Doris smiled. “Besides, you’re family, dear.”

Vince suddenly felt all hot around his eyes. It was weird, having family. He’d never had that before. “Thanks,” Vince said. Then, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, “I’ll knit you a balaclava, if you want.”

“What a lovely idea,” Doris said, becoming once again absorbed by the television. “I’ll bring it to my self-defence class – all the girls will want one.”

*

A few days later, balaclava in hand, Vince’s Nan went out for her evening self-defence class, leaving Vince alone in the house. It wasn’t really late, but the autumn chill had settled into the trees, and everything outside was dark, wet and ominous. Vince didn’t mind, though. Winter was better for his complexion, anyway, and the colder temperatures meant being able to wear snazzy coats with fake-fur collars and an assortment of the multicoloured scarves that filled his cupboard to bursting. 

Vince wasn't bothered by the weather. He was, however, bothered by the creepy, quiet stillness that surrounded him in the empty house now his Nan had gone out. Vince was sitting alone, curled up on the big, ugly chair his Nan always sat in, curtains drawn, feeling jumpy and unsettled by the way the rain tapped against the window, and the way the wind made horrible gasping, moaning sounds through the trees. He’d just watched some stupid, scary B-movie on the Horror channel, and every odd sound that echoed through the house was making him jump out of his skin. 

Vince wasn’t such a wuss, usually. He could take a horror film a two – he’d even sat through three of the _Saw_ movies with some mates at his last school. They were awful and horrific and Vince pretty much couldn’t eat anything for a week after, but Vince wasn’t the kind to run away from things that scared him, and he wasn’t about to let the other guys laugh at him for being a pussy (even though Gary threw up halfway through the first film, and Simon started crying halfway through the next). 

The thing was, though, that Vince wasn’t used to being alone. He was used to being around lots of people all the time, and whenever he was at home, it tended to be a home filled with other kids. The last time Vince had watched a horror film, he’d been sitting with his two older foster brothers (they’d been nice guys; the nicest he’d ever stayed with), and when the film was over, they’d let him, without too much ribbing, sneak into their room and curl up on one of their beds, so he didn’t have to lie alone in the dark. 

Now, Vince was feeling pretty nervy. He’d put on one of the music channels on TV and cranked the song right up loud, but it wasn’t helping. Every shadow around every corner of his Nan’s rickety old house was freaking him out, and his Nan wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours (her self-defence class was always followed by a weekly curry and a few drinks with her friends) and there was no one else around. 

He thought about calling someone – he had both Neon and Ultra’s numbers stored in his phone (“in case we ever have a band emergency,” they said, although they’d so far never called), and he had Leroy’s, too, but he really didn’t want to admit to the two coolest girls in the school that he was a bit freaked out by a stupid, scary movie, and walking to Leroy’s would take ages in the wind and rain. 

That pretty much just left Howard. He lived closed by, and even better, Howard was basically a complete loser; Vince didn’t need to worry about looking cool in front of him. 

Leaving Kings of Leon screeching on TV, Vince scampered upstairs and turned the computer on. He brought up his Facebook page and clicked eagerly on the online chat. Howard’s name, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Vince wasn’t particularly surprised; Howard was the most anti-social freak he’d ever come across, and was the type to keep invisible online while secretly spending hours stalking other people’s pages to see what they were doing without him, and what people were saying about him. 

“Paranoid bastard,” Vince muttered, typing Howard’s name into the search and hitting _enter_.

You probably could’ve seen a tumbleweed roll across Howard’s profile it was so empty. There were only a few status updates about souls and darkness and being misunderstood that Vince reckoned must have been intellectual quotes by stuffy, dead philosophers, and a couple of month-old messages from Monty and Leroy asking to borrow Howard’s media notes. 

Vince felt pretty sorry for Howard, then. It was a shame. Howard was okay, really, Vince had decided. Because, crippling fashion ailments aside, Howard _was_ a nice guy. And he had a weird sense of humour buried under all the stiffness and awkwardness. Howard didn't seem to acknowledge it was there, but it made Vince laugh. 

_oi, howard,_ Vince typed, _im bored. i know ur there sitting infront of the comp being all lame and wastin your evening so i think u shuld entertain me._

Vince sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. A door somewhere in the house banged shut, and Vince jumped violently. He looked warily over his shoulder, then back at the computer. A little red notification had popped up. 

_I’m busy_ , Howard had written back. _Entertain yourself._

 _yeh right_ , Vince typed immediately. _u aint busy. u answered back way to fast. u just been sittin at the comp wating for me to talk to u. its ok, u can admit u hav a problem._

After a moment, Howard wrote, _What do you want?_

Vince’s fingers hovered above the keyboard. _can i come over?_ he typed, finally. _kinda bored. no one else available._

Howard didn’t answer for a good three and a half minutes, which Vince spent anxiously picking off his old nail varnish. He figured it was the leftover creepiness from the movie that was making him so nervous, but he really wished Howard would hurry the fuck up and answer, or at least get on Chat like a normal person. Or have agreed to give Vince his mobile number like Vince had _asked_ , rather than refusing on the grounds that Vince would have abused the privilege of having Howard’s number by calling him every two minutes to whine about something or to wind him up. Vince thought that assessment of his character to be rather unfair. He would have waited at least _five_ minutes. 

Howard’s reply finally came. _Sorry_ , it said. _Was talking to mum. It feels great to be your last resort, by the way. So shall I come over to yours? It’s kind of a mess at mine. I mean, only if you want me to come. If your Nan doesn’t mind me being over._

Vince hesitated. He was pretty sure Howard had overheard him a couple of weeks ago, talking to Leroy about one of the foster families he’d stayed with, but when he’d noticed Howard lurking behind them, Howard had just turned bright red and mumbled an apology and pretended like he hadn’t heard a word. Now he was basically saying that he knew Vince was an orphan kid living with his Nan. Vince wondered if it was awkward, or if it mattered at all. He hoped it didn’t. 

_she aint in_ , Vince typed back hurriedly, not allowing himself to think too much about it. _self defence class or sumthin. yeh u can come over no probs. hurry up tho, imnot waitin around all nite for u. and bring sumthn interestig to do, but not like scrabble ok cos that games boring._

 _Says the boy who can’t spell_ , Howard wrote back, rather snidely, Vince thought. _I’ll be there in fifteen._

*

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Emerging from a fortress of pillows, cushions and blankets (to keep the creepy shadows out), Vince tottered tentatively to the hallway and peered through the frosted glass of the front door. There was a distinctly Howard-shaped (and Howard-coloured, being mostly brown) form outside, so Vince slid open the latch and opened the door. 

Howard was standing there, looking rather soggy and unimpressed. His hair was limper than ever, and he was carrying a guitar case. 

Vince blinked. “What the fuck is that?”

Howard shifted awkwardly on the front step. “A guitar case. Obviously.”

“Does it have a guitar _inside_?” Vince asked disbelievingly.

“What else would it have inside, a trombone?” Howard said impatiently. “Are you going to let me in or not? It’s freezing out here.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a trombone,” Vince said, stepping aside to let Howard in. “I mean, you’re the one who’s all into trumpets and shit. Why did you bring a guitar?”

Howard kicked his shoes off. “You said to bring something interesting.”

“But can you _play_ it?”

“Of course,” Howard said, irritably, putting the guitar down. “I’m a multi-instrumentalist. I can put my hand to any instrument.”

Vince raised an eyebrow. “Any instrument, ever?”

“Well,” Howard faltered. “Most.”

“Like the trombone?”

“No, okay...”

“Bassoon?”

“No, but…”

“Piccolo?”

“No, I…”

“Trumpet?”

Howard puffed up his chest. “Of course. Grade five.”

“Um. I wouldn’t look too proud of myself if I were you. Being grade five trumpet ain’t the sort of thing that’s gonna get you a girlfriend. This, on the other hand…” Vince leaned down to open the guitar case. “I can’t believe you can play guitar. This is the kind of thing that has girls clamouring to get at you.”

“I don’t like people who clamour,” Howard said sulkily, clearly still smarting over Vince’s derision of his trumpeting skills. 

Vince ignored him and pulled out the guitar. “It’s beautiful,” he said, in an awed voice, holding the gleaming acoustic in his arms. He looked up at Howard. “So are you gonna play me something?”

Howard flushed a little. “Maybe,” he said.

“Why did you bring it if you’re only _maybe_ going to play something?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I just thought I’d bring something bright and shiny to occupy your tiny little mind long enough so I didn’t have to expend too much energy entertaining you all evening.”

“I’m not _that_ high-maintenance, come on.” Vince smirked and put a hand on his hip. “Okay, then. Occupy me.”

Howard flushed a deeper shade of red. “Why are you so incapable of occupying yourself?”

Vince rolled his eyes and flounced off into the living room. “It’s only freaks like you who enjoy all that time alone, Howard,” he called over his shoulder. “Normal people like to spend time in the company of other humans.” He plonked himself back down on the sofa, amongst the pile of cushions. Howard followed hesitantly behind. “Sit down, then.”

Howard sat down on a chair at the other end of the lounge. Vince rolled his eyes. “No, sit _here_.” 

“Where?”

“Here.” Vince patted the area next to him. 

“Surely there isn’t enough space,” Howard said, edging warily towards the sofa, eyeing the tower of pillows and blankets. 

“It’s cosy,” Vince said, shrugging. 

“Right. Cosy.” Howard sounded unsure, but he wriggled in place on the sofa, pushing a few stray cushions out of his way. “How are you such a child?”

Vince scowled and poked his toes into Howard’s side. “Fuck off, this is my house, and you’re a guest here. Anyway…” He curled himself up again. “If you _have_ to know, I was getting scared being alone in the house so I set up camp on the sofa while I was waiting for you to get here.”

Howard let out a laugh. “Scared of what?”

“I don’t know,” Vince said, irritably, chewing on the skin of his thumb. “I watched this stupid, scary movie thing on TV, and then the house was all empty. I’m used to having lots of people around all the time, okay? All the foster families I stayed with had other kids, too, so it was pretty much always loud, all the time.” Vince shrugged and buried himself deeper in the blankets, feeling kind of stupid and hating the fact that he did. It was only _Howard Moon_ he was talking to, for fuck’s sake. 

“Do you miss them?” Howard asked, quietly.

“Sometimes.” Vince pulled on one of the dark red threads on the blanket, starting to unravel it. “I keep in touch with some of them, the nice ones. They call me up occasionally. Some of the other families I’ve never heard from again, and I don’t fucking care, ‘cos they really sucked.” Vince tugged the thread viciously. 

Howard fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “I’m, uh. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry,” Vince said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care. Anymore. I’ve got real family now.” He pointed to the mantelpiece, where a photograph of his Nan in fighter-pilot gear stood proud in all its muted sepia glory. “I mean, she’s a total nutjob, but. She’s family, you know?”

“She’s a nutter.” Howard smiled a small smile. “The two of you are clearly related.”

“Fuck off.” Vince poked Howard with his toes again. “What about you, then? Single child, right? Got all that time and your parents all to yourself.”

“Yeah, right,” Howard muttered. He looked away with a huff. “My parents are way too busy arguing with each other to bother with me. It’s like a warzone round there. They’re at each other’s throats every day.”

“They must love you though, right?”

“Right,” Howard said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Vince waved off any apology Howard was thinking of making. Vince’s parents had died when he was six years old. He could hardly remember either of them, and even though it really sucked being an orphan and all, he thought he’d done a pretty good job of coping with his life so far. “Come on, play me something on guitar, yeah?”

“Well. Alright.” Howard looked unsure. Unsure and uncomfortable, Vince noted, seemed to be Howard’s default expressions. 

“Come on,” Vince wheedled. “It’s your duty to cheer me up, like. I’ve got issues, Howard. I’m all depressed and tortured inside. Play me a song to make me feel better.”

Howard snorted. “You’re not depressed and tortured. You’re the most optimistic person I’ve ever met. Every day is like a bloody Friday afternoon to you.”

“Fuck off, I don’t even like Fridays that much,” Vince retorted, getting up from the sofa and padding into the hallway to bring Howard his guitar. “Still have to go to school on a Friday.” He walked forward and dropped it in Howard’s lap. “I’ve always liked Sundays, though. Day of rest and all that. Hey, Howard.” Vince clicked his fingers. _“Every day is like Sunday,”_ he sang. _“Every day is silent and grey.”_

“What’s that?” Howard frowned. 

“Morrissey, come _on_ ,” Vince said, encouragingly. “Whiny northern bastard complaining a lot and singing about, like, his inner darkness. That’s right up your alley.”

“Right,” Howard scoffed. “Whereas you’re much more Girls Aloud. Skinny twiglets in too much makeup prancing around worrying about their hair.”

Vince grinned. “I like it when you surprise me with your wit, Howard. Now play a song.”

“Alright.” Howard’s cheeks were a little pink as he bent down over his guitar. “I’ll play you some Bowie, that okay?”

“Howard!” Vince clutched at his chest and fluttered his eyelashes as he sat down at Howard’s feet. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” he said, but he strummed the guitar, the first few chords of _Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide_ filling the room as Vince grinned, enraptured. 

Howard had a surprisingly good voice. Under all the sulking and the muttering that Vince heard day-to-day, Howard actually had something good to sing with. Vince felt shivery all over when Howard got to _oh no, love, you’re not alone_ , and he listened intently to Howard lilting in his northern accent over the words. When he got towards the end of the song, Howard’s fingers stumbled awkwardly and stopped playing. 

“That’s it,” he said, self-consciously. “I mean, the song fades out, so.” He shrugged.

“Howard,” Vince said, seriously, after giving himself a moment to recuperate from the shock of finding out that Howard was actually properly talented. “How come you don’t tell people you can sing and play like that?”

Howard hunched his shoulders. “I do,” he said. “I don’t think they believe me, though. Or they don’t listen.”

“Huh.” Vince reached out and pinged one of the guitar strings. It resonated sharply in the room then fell silent. “That’s kind of sad.” He looked up at Howard, and Howard was looking back at him, cautiously, as though expecting Vince to say something else. 

When he didn’t, Howard looked away, muttering rather bitterly, “Well, it must be tiring to be the centre of attention, I suppose. To be noticed all the time. To have people around who actually like you.”

“I like you!” Vince blurted out. “I mean,” he clarified, as Howard blinked at him, surprised, “do you think nobody likes you? They do. Well, maybe they don’t. I dunno. But I’m not everybody – I just. I like you, at least?” Vince glanced at Howard, hopefully.

It was kind of strange. Howard was probably a million miles away from the kind of person Vince would usually try to make friends with, but in a way, Vince knew exactly how Howard felt. Howard’s problem was that he alienated everyone with anti-social awkwardness. Vince’s problem was that parading around like a peacock meant only ever attracting people who were really shallow. Either way, you ended up feeling like you just desperately wanted people to _like_ you, but you could never tell if they did or not. 

“Howard?” Vince asked, timidly, when Howard still hadn’t said anything. He reached out from his position on the floor at Howard’s feet, touching his knuckles to the brown socks around Howard’s ankles.

“I – I should go,” Howard stammered suddenly, jerking his leg away from Vince’s touch. “It’s getting late. My mum – I should go.”

“Oh. Okay.” Vince dropped his hand in his lap, feeling weirdly rejected. He stuck on a grin, anyway. “Thanks for responding to my call of distress. And for the serenading and that.”

“Yeah.” Howard smiled uncertainly and swallowed. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he sidled away from Vince, guitar case in hand, hurrying to the door and letting himself out into the dark.

Vince was left in silence. The house felt even emptier than before. There was this weird, creeping sadness happening somewhere in his chest, like something had gone wrong. He felt – forlorn? Vince shook his head, trying to clear it. He wasn’t the type to feel forlorn, usually, what the fuck? Despite everything, all the shit, the dead parents, the stupid schools, the crappy foster houses, he still thought of himself as an optimistic person. The encroaching melancholy was unusual and unwelcome. 

Howard must’ve been having a bad influence on him with all his Sartre and seriousness, Vince figured. It was killing his inner sunshiney vibe.

Maybe Howard was a lost cause. Maybe Vince should’ve abandoned him to his Geography notes and history of trumpeting instead of kidding himself he could steer Howard back on track with bright colours and soft fabrics. It was such a shame, though, Vince thought sadly. Without his help, Howard would probably only ever wear tweed and variegated browns for the rest of his life.

And Howard failing to mention he was actually talented under the bumbling exterior was unforgivable and totally insane to Vince who would’ve already quit school and pursued his rock’n’roll dreams without a second thought if he could actually play guitar like Howard could. 

Vince jumped suddenly when a key in the front door clicked and turned. His Nan was back, and a quick glance at the clock showed him that he’d been sitting, moping around, for a good half an hour. Pathetic. 

Calling out good night to his Nan, Vince got into pyjamas, brushed his teeth, turned all the lights off and crawled into bed, falling asleep before he had time to think about why he cared what Howard did in his life so much.

*

The next day, Vince walked to Howard’s with a noticeable spring in his step. The miserable fog in the air had cleared away, and with it had gone all the weird apprehensions Vince had been feeling about everything – about living with his Nan for good, about staying at Old Gregg’s, and about convincing Howard to stop being weird and embrace the fact that they were going to be friends and that Vince was going to expand his horizons to include electro-pop and leopard-print. 

So with a bright sun shining coldly through the whitewashed November sky (illuminating his hair at its sleek, morning best), Vince scurried along down Colobos Avenue to Howard’s house. He arrived at _precisely_ eight-twenty (Howard’s eight-twenty, in order to impress Howard by sacrificing the extra five minutes Vince could have spent filing his nails) and rang the doorbell with a grin on his face. 

“Hey Howa—” he started to say as the door opened, but faltered when he saw a tall, dark-haired woman in the entrance hall instead of Howard’s usual, suspicious, tiny-eyed gaze. “Oh. Hello, um, miss,” Vince said uncertainly. “Is Howard there?”

“Vince, is it?” the woman said, distractedly. She had a couple of hairpins in the corner of her mouth and was fixing up a bun on top of her head. “I’m afraid Howard’s already left.” 

“Oh.” Vince felt an odd sort of disappointment. He’d kind of wanted to bounce around Howard on the way to school eagerly informing him of all the thinking he’d been doing about how they were actually kind of alike, the two of them, except for how Vince had infinitely superior dress sense and a much less pronounced tendency to embarrass himself, which made them perfect, like yin and yang, and how all this meant that they should become best mates which would be pretty cool ‘cause Vince had never really had a best mate before. “Oh, okay, never mind.”

“He said he had to take some books back to the library,” the woman – Howard’s mum, Vince assumed – said. She had a pronounced northern accent, stronger than Howard’s. “He left about, oh,” she checked her watch, “seven minutes ago. You might still be able to catch him.” She reached down to grab a bag by her feet, then stepped out onto the doorstep. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to leave for work.”

“Sorry,” Vince stepped back to let her out. “Did Howard not say anything about, like, waiting for me?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Moon said, pulling a jangling set of keys from her pocket. She put the key in the car door, looking thoughtful. “I thought he would have told you he was going in early, it’s not like Howard to forget things.”

Vince shrugged, scuffing his toe on the driveway. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ll talk to him at school, I guess.”

Mrs. Moon nodded sympathetically. She glanced at her watch. Vince was about to say goodbye and walk off when she said, “Here, get in the car, I’ll give you a lift to school. It’s on my way, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Vince hovered uncertainly. “It’s okay, I don’t want to make you late.”

“It’s fine,” Mrs. Moon said, waving a hand. “Come on, you can catch my son before class and ask him why he stood you up. I thought I brought him up with better manners than that.”

“Um. Okay,” Vince said, trying to look nonchalant and not too much like he had designs on her son in case she’d only been joking, which she probably had. Vince didn’t _think_ he had designs on Howard. At least, no designs that went further than becoming best friends and making Howard listen to Gary Numan’s entire back-catalogue. Still, he felt a little warm in the face as he slid into the car, and couldn’t help fiddling with the little silver star-charm he wore on a chain around his wrist, the one his mum had left him, like he always did when he felt confused and nervous.

The journey to school only lasted about ten minutes. Mrs. Moon asked a lot of questions about how Vince was doing, how he liked school and how he was getting on, staying with his Nan. She seemed like a pretty standard mother, nice and reasonable and concerned, and also a bit frazzled around the edges like she tried to do too many things at once. But when Vince saw that Mrs. Moon had a Captain Beefheart CD collection in the door of her car, Vince mentally bumped her up a couple of places from “very nice lady” to “best mum ever”, and started pestering her for details after she mentioned the time she went to see The Rolling Stones in concert.

“I’d love to stay and chat all day,” Mrs. Moon said, coming to a stop outside the school gates, “but I’ve got to run. And see if you can try to get Howard to stop moping around so much. He’s seemed awfully sulky lately. He could do with a bright lad like you around to cheer him up a bit.”

Vince tried not to look too pleased with himself. “He does wear an awful lot of corduroy.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Moon sighed. “Gets that from his father. They don’t – well, they don’t get on very well, the two of them. Sometimes I think he...” She trailed off, then shook herself. “Sorry, off you go.” She pushed the car door open on Vince’s side. “Have a good day, Vince.”

“Thanks,” Vince said, awkwardly. “Um, for the lift.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Moon said smiling. “Come around any time you want.” And with a wave, she drove off. 

Vince felt a little bit weird, like he’d just been unconditionally accepted into the Moon fold without even asking. He’d never even met Mr. Moon, and he didn’t particularly want to. And even though Mrs. Moon seemed like a nice enough lady, Howard was the only Moon, really, that Vince cared about. 

*

Vince found himself in the library, willingly, for the first time in his life. Of course, it wasn’t to get any books out or anything. It was because Howard was there, in the desk right at the back on the left, hunched over a notebook with a pile of dull-looking textbooks on the bench beside him, and Vince needed to talk to him.

“Hey,” Vince said, sliding onto a seat opposite Howard, who was frowning at the page in front of him, covered in scribbles. “What you writing?”

“Vince!” Howard slammed his notebook shut and gathered it to his chest, looking flushed. “What – it’s nothing.”

Vince smirked. “Is it dirty? You’re a pervert, Howard Moon, writing erotica in broad daylight.”

“I said it’s nothing,” Howard insisted, his face bright red. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Vince’s smirk faded. “Came to find you, didn’t I? ‘Cos you ditched me this morning like a dick.”

Howard drummed his fingers on the cover of his notepad. “Well. I – I had to—”

“Go to the library,” Vince finished for him. “Yeah, like always. But we’re _supposed_ to walk there together. I was on time today and everything.”

“I had things to do,” Howard said shortly, gathering his pens towards him and piling everything on top of the text books. “We don’t have to be together all the time.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Like I’d want to spend every waking moment with you. S’just walking off when we had plans to meet’s well rude, is all.”

Howard was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I had other things on my mind.”

Vince shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just warn me if you’re buggering off by yourself, next time. Still.” Vince grinned. “I got to meet your mum. She’s a nice lady.”

“My mum?” Howard looked at Vince in wide-eyed horror. 

“Yeah, she was well nice to me. Gave me a lift and everything.”

Howard frowned. “My mum doesn’t even give _me_ a lift to school. Not even when it’s raining.”

“It’s my ragamuffin charm.” Vince preened. “Your mum was proper hitting on me, I swear. All the ladies fall for it.”

“The ladies?” Howard looked aghast. “Don’t be comparing my mum to one of those empty-headed Camden dollies you fancy. She’s a sophisticated woman, my mother.”

“I know, I know.” Vince held out a pacifying hand. “Sophisticated, totally. She was well nice to me. We really got on, me and her. Not like–” he interrupted hastily when Howard made another horrified face. “She didn’t really hit on me. Honest. She was just all proper concerned and that.” He looked down, tracing a circle with his finger on the shiny wooden desktop. “She – uh. She asked me how I was doing at my Nan’s, so…” Vince looked up. “I guess you must’ve told her. You know. About me being an orphan or whatever.”

Howard’s cheeks reddened a little. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s totally fine.” Vince waved the apology away. He actually felt kind of pleased that Howard liked him enough to discuss him with his mum. “And she gave me some carrot cake from her lunchbox. Mums always seem to think that if you’re an orphan you don’t get fed enough.”

“Well you are skinny as fuck,” Howard said, reaching forward to grab at Vince’s arm. “See that? Skin and bone.”

“Yeah.” Vince looked down, to where Howard’s fingers were joined in a circle around his wrist, darker in contrast to his gothly-white skin. Howard’s palms were warm, and Vince shivered, suddenly feeling the Autumn chill in contrast that wasn’t quite blocked out in the draughty library by his very stylish but completely unpractical TopShop jacket. “Well, you know. Fast metabolism or something.”

“Yeah.” 

The library was silent, save for the muffled footsteps of one other student behind the bookshelves, dedicated – or mental – enough to get some research done before registration. Through the single-glazed, finger-smudged windows, the sounds of the kids milling outside Old Gregg’s came muffled, louder and softer like a badly tuned radio. Howard’s fingers had loosened, so that they just rested on the back of Vince’s hand.

“We should probably go,” Vince said quietly, after a beat. 

Howard jumped. “Ah. Right!” he said, far too loudly. “Yes, we should. Onwards!” He only just seemed to realise that his hand was still holding Vince’s, so he snatched it back, accidentally smacking his elbow into the pile of books and pens next to him, so that the carefully-arranged structure toppled over, scattering across the table and onto the floor.

“Howard, you nutbox,” Vince said, shaking his head. “How are you always such a spaz?”

Howard mumbled something under his breath, quickly gathering the wayward items to his chest. Rolling his eyes, Vince leaned down to help pick up the fallen papers from the floor when he noticed Howard’s notebook there, open to a page covered in writing near the middle. His curiosity peaked. He sat up quickly and pushed the rest of Howard’s papers towards him. 

“I mean,” Vince said, covering the notebook carefully with one of his feet to hide it as Howard peered around the desk to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, “I’ve known some clumsy people in my life, right, but this is ridiculous. Always knocking things over, blundering about. You need more, like – poise and grace, like me.” He slid the notebook so it was right under his chair, hidden from sight.

Howard snorted. “As if _you’ve_ got poise and grace. You’d run headfirst into a wall distracted by something shiny if there wasn’t someone about to hold your hand.”

“I’ve got poise!”

“You’ve got _pose_. You’re a poseur. That’s different.”

“I’ve got charm. I’m a ragamuffin from the streets. Your mum loves me.”

“Ugh.” Howard made a face and busied himself with stuffing his books into his bag rather than answering. Vince grinned and, taking advantage of Howard’s distraction, slipped the notebook into his own bag. Howard didn’t seem to notice.


	4. Stop imagining me in leggings

The first lesson that day was chemistry. Chem was a fucking weird subject at Old Gregg’s, which was kind of saying a lot, considering the total lack of background checks Headmaster Naboo ran on the staff.

Chem was taught by a certain Dr. Saboo. Vince wasn’t sure if that was his real name, or if he was even really a doctor, and he certainly didn’t seem to take health and safety precautions in class very seriously, because he kept his labcoat open in order to allow the class to bask fully in the regal glamour of his outfit. He also constantly wore a large hat with a massive feather inside it, which Vince was sure was definitely a fire hazard, regardless of the fact that it was definitely fabulous. 

Saboo didn’t even really teach them anything, either (not that many of the teachers at Old Gregg’s _did_ – the only thing Vince seemed to have learned there was how to put together a coconut stick-man in Miss Eleanor’s art class, except Vince had decided to make a coconut stick-lady, had named her Ruby, and been commended with a purr by Miss Eleanor about his creative vision). Dr. Saboo seemed to enjoy spending the Chemistry lessons talking about himself. 

That morning, he swept into the room and sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers beneath his chin adorned with a long, feathery goatee. He surveyed the class darkly from beneath the brim of his wide, emerald green hat and seemed to be pausing for effect. Vince glanced across at Howard, who caught his eye and gave him a small smile. Vince looked back down at his own desk, grinning.

“What happens,” Dr. Saboo said slowly, in his deep, nasally voice, “when you come to the crunch?”

No one in the class responded. Neon was filing her nails. Joey was trying to make a Jenga-like structure out of colouring pencils. 

“None of you have ever been to the crunch,” Dr. Saboo continued, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis, “so how are you going to know how to deal with it when it comes at you around the corner when you least expect it?”

Vince yawned loudly. Dr. Saboo narrowed his eyes, but Vince just blinked back, a benign expression on his face. Dr. Saboo had been going on about ‘the crunch’ ever since their first lesson that term. It had seemed mildly worrying at first; the veiled threats and the flat, toneless way Saboo provided each of his students with a prediction of their demise made Vince feel kind of uncomfortable in the class. 

Especially when Saboo brought out a silver suitcase that contained a clear jar in which floated a pink, bulbous, deformed head with tentacles on it, and he warned the class that this was what happened to people who weren’t properly prepared for the crunch. 

Since he hadn't actually done anything since then, though, Vince had decided that Saboo was annoying, but basically harmless, and chemistry was as good a time as any to fit in a little sleepy, or to catch up on other more important things. 

Speaking of which. Vince pulled his bag into his lap, darting a quick look to the front of the class to make sure Saboo was occupied with recounting a story about the time he saved a man by carrying him across a river in a hold-all. Then, Vince slipped Howard’s notebook out of his bag, and flipped it open to about a quarter of the way through, hiding it on his lap, under the desk. 

The pages were covered in Howard’s tiny, cramped writing, inching its way across the whiteness like a spider with a limp. It was as if Howard was trying to disguise his words, make it so that no one except himself could read it. Vince squinted and tilted the book sideways. He could kind of make something out, a title at the top of the page in capitals that said _CREAM_ , maybe, and something underneath it.

 _with your elegant skin the colour of cream,_ Vince managed to decipher, _wrapping around your bones like solid stacks of cream; your fingers like creamy spikes topped with cherry nails of cream, and your eyes like swirling pools of whipped cream with a green grape sitting in the middle of all that cream; I can imagine your creamy thighs beside me, pale like the cream face of the moon, and I’d lick them like I’d lick a hot cupcake full of cream_

Vince made a weird noise in his throat, half-laughing, half disturbed, then looked up quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Dr. Saboo had turned around to face the blackboard and was drawing a diagram in chalk, a circle with an arrow going round it, labelled _day trip around the crunch_. Vince looked back down at the notebook. The rest of the page seemed to be mostly written in the same style; an ode to someone with references to cream that was oddly pornographic and slightly disturbing. But who was it about?

Vince glanced quickly around the classroom. Howard had had a thing for Ultra, and Ultra had kind of creamy skin, but her eyes weren’t green, and none of the girls in the room had cherry-coloured nails, today at least. Vince chewed a pale white finger ponderously, scratching his three-day old red nail varnish with his teeth, then widened his green eyes in surprise as it hit him.

“No _way_!” Vince said out loud. The class, jolted out of its stupor by his exclamation, turned to look at him, confused.

“Mr. Noir!” Saboo said, slamming his chalk down angrily on the desk. “You are not paying attention!”

“Oh, sorry.” Vince glanced quickly at Howard who just gave him a confused look. “I was – thinking about something else.”

“It’s a shame that, when it comes to the crunch, you take my warnings so lightly,” Saboo said darkly, folding his arms. “You’re to go immediately to Headmaster Naboo and explain yourself, and see how you deal with your first taste of crunch!” And with that, he swept out an elegant arm, and pointed Vince in the direction of the door. 

Vince shrugged, and, careful not to let Howard see, slipped the notebook and the rest of his things in his bag. “Alright. Catch you later.” He waved to the class, grinning as Leroy rolled his eyes at him, jealous that Vince was getting an easy escape out of class.

Vince had never been to the Headmaster’s office before. He thought it would be quite easy to find, that it would be signposted or labelled like the offices at his other schools were, but very much _unlike_ his other schools, the signs directing people towards the Headmaster’s office were large, garish and carved out of wood, bearing brightly-painted instructions on them such as _A Little To The Left_ and _You’ve Gone Too Far, You Ballbag_ to direct him. 

Like Alice in his own scholastic Wonderland, Vince wandered, confused, for a good ten minutes up and down the corridors, led astray by trick signs and getting increasingly enraged by the blaring declarations of _Did You Honestly Fall For That One?_

It also didn’t help that Vince had a weird, gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach that felt curiously Howard Moon-shaped, and he couldn’t get cream-based similes out of his head. It was so – it was fucking confusing, is what it was. He couldn't understand where any of it was coming from. Because Howard, for all that he was predictable in his interests and opinions, was completely unpredictable, Vince was beginning to learn, in his moods and emotions. He could be awkwardly endearing, accidentally mean, or obliviously funny at random intervals, and there was something strangely intense about him too, like there was all this stuff, thoughts and memories and weirdness brewing darkly under that limp, floppy haircut of his. 

And apparently, he wrote bad poetry about Vince’s thighs. Vince really didn’t know whether to ignore the weirdness of that idea or to analyse it and then freak out about it.

Finally, Vince found himself outside Dr. Naboo’s door (which had a peeling sticker announcing _Shaman in Session_ on it, and had actually been two rooms down from the chemistry lab, if he hadn’t been tricked by the fucking signs and started off in the wrong direction). Vince knocked smartly and waited to be called in. 

There was no voice, but the door, instead, opened automatically with an ominous creak. Vince stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. Headmaster Naboo was sat behind his desk, cross-legged on a purple bean-bag, gazing unfocusedly at the ceiling. The room was full of strange paraphernalia; clocks and crystal balls, books bound in chains, stuffed scorpions mounted on frames and a box to the right full of Kit-Kats.

“Um,” Vince said, clearing his throat. “I got sent here by Dr. Saboo.”

Naboo blinked and shifted forward on his bean-bag. “What did you do?” he asked. He had an odd voice, sort of soft and thick like he was speaking through cotton wool. “And tell the truth, mind you, ‘cos my mind’s built like a shamanistic fortress and I can use my powers to tell if you’re lying.”

Vince seriously doubted the truth of Naboo’s claims, but he also seriously doubted the fervour with which Naboo would punish him for not paying attention in class, so he thought he might as well do what Naboo asked and tell the truth. “Well, what it was,” Vince started, shifting his bag off his shoulder to place on the floor, “was that I nicked Howard Moon’s notebook off him – not permanently, like, I just borrowed it, I’ll give it back – and I was being nosy and reading all this stuff he’d written in there, rather than listening to Dr. Saboo’s chemistry lesson.” Calling it a chemistry lesson, Vince thought, was a massive exaggeration.

“Okay,” Naboo said amiably enough, but there was faint annoyance in his tone, like he wasn’t particularly happy about having been interrupted doing – whatever it was he’d been doing. “Make your apologies to Bollo, and do it quick, yeah? I’ve still got to iron my turbans.” Naboo gestured to the side of the room where, between a shelf of books and a small table with a stack of bingo cards and lottery tickets on it, stood a massive stuffed and mounted gorilla. 

“Sure,” Vince said, uncertainly. The gorilla – Bollo – was kind of creeping him out. The badger in his Nan’s living room, he could deal with, but Bollo was like a wise old majestic-looking ape, and it seemed sad and weird that he was standing dead still, eyes unfocused in a dusty corner. “Um, hi Bollo.”

Bollo grunted in acknowledgement of his name, and Vince yelped loudly. 

“Calm down, he won’t bite,” Naboo said. “Hurry it up, yeah? I’ve got a ritual magic seminar at five and I haven’t dusted my candles yet.”

“Hi Bollo,” Vince tried again, clearing his throat to get rid of the croak. “Um. I guess I’m supposed to say sorry?” He glanced over to Naboo, but Naboo was playing on some kind of hand-held gaming device he hadn’t seen before that was emitting bleeps and little _puff-puff-puff_ noises. “For, uh, not paying attention in class,” Vince said, turning back to Bollo. “I got distracted, but I, um, won’t do it again.”

Bollo grunted again, rolling his mighty ape shoulders and bowing his head gracefully, as if accepting Vince’s apology. “You have,” he said, in a thick voice wheezing with age-old wisdom and something indistinctly foreign, “good hair, my friend.”

“Cheers,” Vince said, grinning. “Yours is alright, too.” He forgot to be weirded-out by a talking ape, just for a second, then remembered, and took a cautious step back, then decided weirder fucking things had happened at Old Gregg’s probably just that very morning, so he reached forward to pat the gorilla on its head. “You’ve got like a Mohawk thing going on there. Wicked.”

“Alright, you can go now,” Naboo said, dismissively. Vince waved goodbye to Bollo who grunted in return, but just as Vince was about to slip out of the door, Naboo called out, “wait!”

Vince took a couple of steps back and looked warily at the Headmaster. “What is it, sir?” he asked. 

Naboo procured something from under his desk – something long and grey with a cream-coloured ( _cream!_ Vince’s mind unhelpfully supplied, and he swallowed down another weird flip in his stomach) balloon attached to the top. Confused, Vince watched as Naboo peered into the depths of the balloon as if examining a crystal ball. “That thing,” Naboo said mysteriously, “the one that’s been preying on your mind this afternoon, it will come to pass. Maybe by next Tuesday. Thursday at the latest. The crystal’s not that clear.” He looked up at Vince. “Teacher’s salary don’t really pay for real crystal balls, you know? Had to get the traveller’s version.”

“Hang on,” Vince said, bewildered. “What thing? What about Tuesday?”

Naboo shrugged. “Don’t have the details. I haven’t passed my tea-leaf reading class yet. But the crystal says it’s something rhyming with _greasy spoon_.”

“Okay,” Vince said, weakly. “I’m gonna go.”

“Kalamalooo,” Naboo nodded, unhelpfully, and the office door shut in Vince’s face.

*

The end of the day couldn’t come too soon, in Vince’s opinion. It was a bright, sunny day, and surprisingly mild for the time of year, and Vince was sick of staring out of classroom windows. 

“Look,” Howard said, grabbing Vince’s arm as the final bell rang before he floated away with the mob of other teenagers ridiculously excited about the end of a school day. “You can come over to mine. This afternoon. If you want.”

“You sound really enthusiastic,” Vince said, wrinkling his nose. “And really, like, shady. What are you planning?”

Howard shrugged, awkwardly. “Nothing,” he said, letting go of Vince’s arm and turning away. “I just thought – never mind.”

“Don’t say _never mind_ like a loser,” Vince said, grabbing at Howard’s sleeve before he could escape. “You’re well paranoid, you are, like you think everyone’s always planning to ditch you to hang out with more exciting people. And yeah,” Vince nodded, “it’s ‘cause seventy percent of the time – maybe eighty – you’re really boring, but it’s part of your _charm_ Howard, and you should at least give us the _chance_ to decide to ditch you ourselves before you do it for us.”

Howard shot Vince a withering look. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

“It’s supposed to be a _joke_ ,” Vince said, pointedly. “Haven’t ditched you yet, have I? So, what do you want me to come over for?”

“I dunno. Just – thought we could hang out. Uh, maybe chill and listen to some jazz?”

Vince made a face. “Sounds electric. More dead guys with trumpets?”

“We don’t have to.”

“Nah, I have nothing better to do, anyway. I just want to get out of here.” Vince didn’t particularly want to go home anyway when his house was empty again, and he supposed jazz was _okay_ , if he tried hard enough. Sometimes you had to force yourself to accept the flaws your friends had, because nobody was perfect, right? 

“ _You sound really enthusiastic_ ,” Howard mimicked. “One day, you’ll learn to love Miles Davis. It’s an appreciation of quality that comes with age and maturity.”

“We’re the same age,” Vince laughed. “I’ll probably still like Chicks on Speed and Tubeway Army when I’m sixty-four.”

“That’ll take a while. You’re still mentally _five_.”

“And you’re mentally fifty.” Vince tugged at Howard’s elbow. “Come on, old man, let’s go back to your place and listen to your bloody jazz.”

*

Howard’s room was fairly dull, for a teenage boy’s, Vince thought. The walls were an off-white sort of colour, and the bed sheets and curtains were the same shade of faded blue. In his Nan’s house, Vince had mismatched _everything_ , pillowcases and duvet covers in horribly clashing colours, bric-a-brac on his shelves that he’d picked up over the years from car boot sales, posters of bands and films (though not half as many as he used to have) on the ugly green walls. Vince’s room looked lived-in, it looked like _him_. Howard’s room looked sort of sad and lonely which, actually, Vince realised, looked like Howard. 

“It’s nice,” he said, gesturing at the general emptiness, and the only part of the room that looked a little busy: the neat bookshelf containing rows and rows of – he looked closely to check – books alphabetised by author. “Your books are alphabetical.”

“And subcategorised by genre,” Howard said. Vince was unsurprised. 

“Can I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the immaculately-made bed. He felt that if he had to stand quietly in the middle of Howard’s lonely room for much longer he was going to start scribbling on the walls or something, just to give it some _life_.

“Sure.” Howard’s fingers twitched awkwardly at his sides. “Shall I put on some music?”

“Yeah. Please,” Vince said, fervently. “It’s too bloody quiet in your house. How can you stand it? I hate the quiet. God, I miss all my foster brothers and sisters. You know I was taken in by this massively rich couple this one time? They were like, you know, doing good charity work by taking messed-up kids into their house. You know how rich people do that, don’t have to work so they make themselves feel useful. Anyways, they were dead nice, even if they were well stuffy, and they took in loads of kids all the time, kept rotating them when the kids went elsewhere or got adopted or whatever, so there was always noise all the time from like, screaming five-year-olds and stompy teenagers whining and me playing my music too loud in my room. That’s the kind of thing I’m used to.”

Howard was kneeling on the floor, clicking through the iPod that he’d hooked up to his speakers. “Bryan Ferry?” he asked, looking up. “That’s fair, if we both like it, right? So you won’t whine continuously about the boundary-defying genius of Coltrane, and I won’t be subjected to your Human League nursery rhyme rubbish.”

“Fuck off,” Vince said, without any real heat. “The Human League were pop pioneers. Where would we be today without them?”

“Appreciating the spirit of jazz and not deriding the men who feel it in their soul.”

“How can _you_ have the spirit of jazz in your soul?” Vince asked, grinning. “You’re clearly from Leeds, not, I dunno, Tennessee.”

“You’re hopeless,” Howard said, coming to sit down beside Vince. “You’re bound by mainstream marketability, suffocated by structure, trapped by the playground rules of pop music. You don’t know the danger, the experimentation, the excitement of free-form music-making…”

“Hey! Not true,” Vince said, looking outraged. “I’m dangerous! I’m living the rock’n’roll lifestyle. In my own way. I’ve got the shoes!” Vince stretched out a leg, showing off a pointy-toed, high-heeled, buckled boot made of reflective, gold material.

“They’re hideous,” Howard retorted. “And since when has rock’n’roll been about _shoes_?”

“Since Bowie donned glittery platforms and an eyepatch. Style can revolutionise a generation, you know. It doesn’t have to be suits and trumpets.”

“It’s easy to put on sparkly spandex. It’s a lot harder to master the art of be-bop.”

“How about be-bopping in sparkly spandex? Imagine that, Howard, you could play the trumpet in like, a cape, with a purple waistcoat and crocodile-skin leggings…”

“Stop it,” Howard said horrified. “Stop imagining me in leggings. I don’t wear leggings.”

“Yeah,” Vince snorted, “you probably wear Hawaiian shorts.”

Howard’s cheeks reddened.

“Fuck off, you _don’t_ ,” Vince exclaimed, gleefully. “Howard, why do I even hang out with you?”

“You tell me,” Howard said huffily. “Since you criticise everything I do.”

There was a pause. Vince wasn’t sure he even had an answer to that question. Maybe it had something to do with enjoying the way he could wind Howard up so easily with a few teasing remarks, and he missed the joking and the banter he used to have with his foster families. Maybe it had something to do with how Howard made him laugh. 

Maybe it was because having Howard around made Vince feel weirdly complete, like Howard being the opposite of him in so many ways made it easier for Vince to be himself. “I don’t know,” Vince said, finally. “I really don’t know.”

They were quiet for a moment, music filling in the spaces they were leaving empty. Eventually, Howard said, “It’s weird, you know. What you said earlier, about liking all that noise and commotion around you. I mean, it’s weird for me.”

“Why?”

Howard shrugged, then turned to look at Vince with odd seriousness. Vince straightened up a little, feeling nervous and weirdly breathless under Howard’s stare. “It’s always so fucking quiet in my house,” he said, slowly. “Because Mum’s out working a lot, and Dad’s out – well, he’s out a lot – so it’s always practically silent in the house. Except when they argue. And then it’s like a fucking war-zone,” he said, darkly, “yelling, screaming, crashing. When it’s quiet it means that they’re getting along, or that they’ve decided to stop talking to each other until they calm down. It’s not _that_ bad, though,” he added, looking sort of apologetically at Vince. “I mean, they’re still together, you know, and they get on sometimes, and sometimes it’s really good. So it’s like, when it’s good, it’s quiet in the house. And when it’s bad, it’s noisy. And I fucking hate noise. I can’t concentrate, I can’t write, I can’t _think_. And that’s why it’s weird,” Howard concluded, shrugging. “Because I hate noise, and you’re really noisy.”

“Wait.” Vince sat up and shuffled a little closer to Howard to look at him directly. “It’s weird that I’m noisy because – what?”

Howard made a frustrated noise. “No, I mean. It’s weird that I hang out with you. Because you’re the noisiest, most tiresomely _tireless_ person I’ve ever met. And for some reason... I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Vince’s mind-cogs were clicking like mad, whirring and puffing and trying to put things together. He was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. “And it’s weird for me,” he said, feeling like he was having a Great Revelation or something, “because you’re all quiet and reserved and your fashion sense is appalling but I don’t mind either.”

“It is weird,” Howard agreed, looking at Vince. Then he looked away, abashed, as if suddenly intensely embarrassed that he’d talked too much when he was used to keeping his thoughts and emotional outbursts inside. 

“Yeah,” Vince said, swallowing. And suddenly, he felt a blinding flash of realisation – it was either fate pushing him forwards, or it was the heart-thumping madness that came from sitting confusingly close to someone in their room listening to them spout rubbish about jazz and leggings and realising that you enjoyed listening to their rubbish despite their limp hair and Hawaiian shorts. Hardly daring to breathe, Vince lifted a hand and put it, shakily, on Howard’s shoulder. 

“Vince, what…” Howard trailed off, looking very wary and almost terrified, the look of a small, trapped animal in his eyes, but he didn’t move. He just stared. 

Vince didn’t know _what_. He had no idea what he was doing. He only knew that something was flipping about in his chest making him so anxious and excited he almost felt sick with it. And there was a warm feeling tugging in his belly, firing up all the nerves in his skin, making the tips of his fingers feel like they might spark electricity. 

He felt – he felt like all he wanted to do was to put his hands in Howard’s hair and pull him close and, although Vince felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat as he thought it, actually _kiss_ him. 

Screwing up his courage and pushing aside every nudge in the temple he was getting from the one brain cell that occasionally thought about things rationally and sensibly, Vince leaned forward, licked his lips and closed his eyes, and—

And then he didn’t have a chance to find out what would have happened next, because that very moment, a loud voice echoed up the stairs calling, “Howard, darling, are you home?”

It was like glass shattering, the sound piercing the thick smog of nerves, tension and excitement that had been swirling around Vince’s head. He blinked, dazed, mouth still open about two and a half seconds away from Howard’s. Howard sprang back as if he’d been electrocuted, losing his balance on the bed and almost falling off. 

“Yeah, I’m upstairs,” he called back in a strangled voice, way too loud in the hushed softness of his room.

“Howard,” Vince whispered, reaching back out with the hand Howard had shaken off, but Howard batted it away again with a horrified look. 

“Go!” Howard hissed. “My mum’ll be up here soon.”

“But—”

“ _Go!_ ” Howard repeated, shoving at Vince. He reached down next to the bed, picked up the lump of stuff that was Vince’s bag and coat, and threw them on Vince’s lap. He pulled his bedroom door open and stood there, messy-haired and slightly wild-eyed, gesturing into the corridor. “Come on!”

Wordlessly, Vince hugged his bag to his chest, and slipped out of Howard’s room.

“You know the way to the front door, right?” Howard asked, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. “Go quickly, don’t let my mum see you. She’ll be in the kitchen, so just – run for it.”

“Howard,” Vince tried again. 

“Just GO!”

Vince turned and ran.

*

Out of breath, Vince burst through his front door and clambered up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He called out a hasty “Nothin’, don’t worry!” when his Nan said, “Vince, what’s---?” as he rushed past, then slammed his door shut and collapsed on his bed, panting heavily into his pillow. 

“Right,” he muttered. “What the fuck.” He allowed himself a minute of dizzy, incoherent thoughts while he tried to get some breath back into his body, then flipped over onto his back, staring hard at the PJ Harvey poster above his bed. 

Maybe it was the lactic acid pumping through his muscles, or the disgusting, sharp taste of cold air being wrenched into lungs that weren’t used to the work, but something was making Vince feel really, really weird somewhere in his stomach. He felt all shaky and unbalanced.

Apparently, he wanted to kiss Howard Moon. A lot. In a way that was making his skin fire up and his chest get tight. It didn’t make any good, logical sense. Then again, not a great deal made good, logical sense at Old Gregg’s. Vince pulled a pillow out from where it had fallen down the side of the bed and hugged it to himself, thinking. He’d spent some of the most bizarre months of his life at the Academy. There were shaman Headmasters, talking gorillas, cockney dinner ladies and a whole host of teachers who probably shouldn’t have been allowed to teach, let alone be loose in general society. 

Maybe, in amongst all that madness, being in love with Howard Moon was actually the thing that made the most sense. Vince toyed with the thought a moment, then sat upright. Wait, he was _in love_ with Howard. Now that the shock from his unexpected surge of athleticism had died down, things seemed decidedly more serious. 

But - no one else allowed Vince to wax lyrical about the many and varied attributes of Gary Numan for four hours straight even though they couldn’t stand electro music. No one else had ditched school for Vince and bought him chips even though they didn’t want chips in the first place. No one else had come over without asking questions when Vince was lonely and feeling scared in the empty house. No one else had serenaded Vince with Bowie. 

And Vince was almost positive Howard had been leaning into their almost-kiss that afternoon, too. Granted, he’d looked kind of terrified, but Howard was terrified and cautious and unsure about most things, and Vince was sure he had what it took to break down all of Howard’s careful barriers. And now he was letting himself think about it, what Vince basically wanted more than anything right then was Howard pinned down against a pillow underneath him, and Vince worked hard to get the things he wanted. 

He sat thoughtfully for a moment, then grabbed his phone. _hey,_ he typed out. _had a nice time this afternoon. bryanferry always gud 2 listen 2. hope ur mum didnt get mad or nething. did u mayb wan2 talk bout it? i think we shud. meet in the lib @ 8.30 – usual place. vince xxx_

Vince dropped his phone back on his bedside table then lay there for a while longer, thinking.


	5. A Charles Dickens tribute band

Vince was standing outside the library, nose pressed to the Perspex circles in the doors that looked like submarine windows. Vince felt a bit like he _was_ in a submarine, all submerged and under pressure and finding it difficult to breathe.

The problem was that, even though Vince had been the one to suggest they should meet that morning, the whole situation seemed to be turning into a Very Important Thing, and Vince was shit at dealing with Very Important Things. It was why no foster family had kept him for more than a year, tops, and the reason why no one ever really took him seriously. 

Except for Howard. Howard listened to him. Howard made fun of him sometimes, but he was always dead quiet and attentive when Vince had something important to say. Howard was – _for fuck’s sake_ , Vince thought, interrupting his own thoughts. He was working Howard up to be like, his soulmate or something. He was turning seventeen in a week. You didn’t get soulmates at seventeen, surely.

There was no one about in the library, as usual, because nobody was a massive nerd like Howard who got to school early to do extra studying. It also meant there was no-one around to overhear their conversation – not that Vince knew what he was actually going to _say_ to Howard. All he knew was that there was this upside-downing, inside-outing kind of feeling in his stomach that he got after eating too many Saturn Zingers. Kind of like he was going to throw up, except he hadn’t eaten any breakfast, so there was nothing there _to_ throw up. 

Through the Perspex in the doors, Vince caught sight of Howard, sitting in his usual spot, tapping his feet and reading a book upside down, hardly paying attention as his small shrimp-eyes darted about. _Looking for him_ , Vince realised.

The churning in his stomach got worse. Vince’s hands were sweaty on the strap of his bag. All he had to do was open the door, march over to Howard, and tell him how he felt. He only had to screw up a little courage—

But Vince let out the breath he’d been holding, his shoulders slumping. Who the fuck was he kidding? Vince Noir was bold and daring in fashion terms, sure – he could wear a pink cowboy hat and gold lamé shoes, a necklace made of Lego pieces or a lurid green poncho, but when it came to grabbing opportunities, making important life decisions and facing up to situations, Vince Noir was a bloody coward.

Quietly, Vince walked away, and tried not to let himself feel terrible.

*

At lunch, things got a whole lot worse.

“You didn’t come to the library.”

Vince jumped, spilling Ribena all over his starch-white shirt. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, then attempted to suck the escaped Ribena out of his cuffs. It tasted disgusting. He made a face.

“Why didn’t you come?” Howard repeated, accusingly, standing at the head of the lunch table, bearing down over Vince who was clutching his slightly squashed Ribena pack in one hand, a half-eaten strawberry jam and Nutella sandwich in the other. “I waited for ages, I—” he lowered his voice, avoiding Vince’s eyes. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

“I—” Vince wriggled in his seat. “I forgot?” He cast a sidelong look down the table. Joey was eyeing them curiously and Ultra had looked up from her slice of cold, congealed pizza. “Look, can we talk about it later?”

“What, so you can stand me up again?” Howard said, folding his arms crossly. His cheeks were a bit red.

“You’re the one who chucked me out of your _house_ without any warning!” Vince retorted, stung. 

“My mum was there,” Howard hissed. “I just – you know, I panicked, but I – anyway, I don’t even know what you – what this is even about. You said you wanted to talk, so I came to meet you, and you didn’t come.”

At this point, a couple of others at their table were letting their conversations tail off in favour of looking up at Vince and Howard. Vince really wished they would look away. Or that Howard would go away. He should have gone to the library that morning – there weren’t as many people around staring, then. “Howard,” Vince said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. “Honestly – I just forgot this morning, but we’ll talk about it later, yeah?”

“Talk about what?” Neon piped up, curiously.

“Nothing,” Vince said quickly. “Just, Howard wants to borrow my notes for, uh, German.”

Leroy rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, do we have to do German over lunch? Break’s short enough as it is without you annoying everyone with irregular verbs, Moon. We ain’t even _got_ German ‘til Friday. Can’t you just chill out for like, five minutes?”

“Yeah, Howard,” Ultra said, yawning. “You can be dead boring sometimes.”

“A little... lacklustre,” Joey added, looking like he was trying to be kind.

“You should try accessorising,” Neon added. “Spice up that generic ensemble.”

“I...” Howard looked sort of bewildered. Even Monty, who sometimes leapt to Howard’s defence, if only to impress everyone by quoting a relevant section of Hamlet, was nodding pompously, like the time had finally come for Howard to come to terms with how boring he really was. 

Howard looked at Vince, like he was waiting for something. Vince looked away, biting his lip. “Fine,” Howard said, shortly. “Don’t bother with the German notes, Noir. I guess we don’t have anything to talk about.” And he stalked away.

Leroy chuckled. “Dramatic, ain’t he?”

Vince tugged on a strand of hair, twisting it round and round his finger like he did when he was upset. “Don’t you think we were kind of mean?”

“Nah,” Joey said. “Moon-O’s got thick skin. He knows we’re just kidding.”

“He’s the kind of guy who needs to be teased a bit, you know,” Neon said wisely. “Otherwise his head’ll explode from that massive ego. Superiority complex.”

“But deep down,” Ultra added, “I mean, like, _deep_ , deep down, he knows we like him anyway.”

“Otherwise we would’ve sent him packing a long time ago,” Leroy said, clapping Vince on the shoulder. “At Old Gregg’s, we stick together.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, but he still felt like his heart had sunk somewhere to the bottom of his shiny, heeled boots. “Right.”

*

Three days went by, and Vince and Howard didn’t talk once. Six or seven times Vince had composed a text, hovered over the ‘send’ button, then chickened out and deleted it instead. Two of those texts he’d saved in his drafts for later, just in case. Vince wondered if Howard was doing the same. He had no idea if Howard was mad at him for that lunchtime, or for the time in his bedroom, or for some other reason he hadn’t understood, and he didn’t know anymore whether he should try to patch things up with Howard and become friends again, or if he should screw up his courage and do what he had planned to do all those days ago and tell Howard that he liked him and maybe wanted to go out with him in case the reason why Howard was mad was because Vince hadn’t tried to ask him yet.

Vince was starting to feel miserable, which was really shit, because Vince was the sunshine kid who liked bright colours and things with sequins on them, and the only things that befitted his dark mood right now were the black cloak, the black drainpipes and the black Sisters of Mercy t-shirt he’d worn during his goth phase when he was fourteen, and none of those things fitted him anymore because he’d had a growth spurt. Still, there was always The Smiths, so after school, Vince walked home by himself, curled up into a ball on his bed and listened to Morrissey moan about being alone. It didn’t make him feel better at all.

The next morning, over breakfast, Vince’s Nan was peering at him over the top of her massive mug of milky coffee. It was more like a basin than a cup, and it steamed up over her wrinkly face. “You alright, Vince?” she asked, dipping a dry cracker into the pool of coffee. “You’ve been awfully quiet these past few days. You’re not even eating Smarties with your cereal anymore.”

Vince peered down at his bowl which was full to the top with Fruit ’n’ Fibre. Brown, carboardy cereal with little black rabbit-dropping raisins floating on top. He hadn’t even noticed what he was eating. It was the kind of thing Howard would eat. Vince sighed. “It’s nothing,” he said, pushing the bowl away. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Well I hope you’re not catching a chill,” Doris said, pursing her lips. “It’s getting cold out there, and the ‘flu is as deadly an enemy as any pickaxe-wielding communist spy.”

“Yeah, well,” Vince said, getting to his feet. “I don’t think there are any of those round these parts, and I feel fine.” He touched his forehead. “Ain’t even got a temperature or nothing. Just don’t feel like eating today.” He gave her a wan smile, and she raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“Well, take some lunch with you, at any rate. You’re bound to get peckish later.”

Vince shrugged and got up to leave, but his Nan waved a hand at him and said, “Vince, wait. About your birthday.”

“What about it?” Vince asked, sitting back down. Vince had a pretty positive attitude towards birthdays. He’d had a few crap ones where he’d got some awful jumpers, even a second-hand calculator for school from his foster family once, and even though they always made you a cake at the orphanage, those places didn’t really get enough funding to buy every kid birthday presents, so he’d missed out a bit in that sense. 

But whatever, even if kids only came to his house for free cake on his birthday, it always made Vince feel, once a year, that he was the one and only centre of attention, which was how he liked it best.

Doris smiled, showing off her crooked teeth, a couple of them missing (not from old age, of course. Vince’s Nan was tough as an old boot and pumped-up on enough calcium supplements that she didn’t even complain about creaking bones. Her missing teeth, she claimed, were unfortunate losses in a fight-to-the-death with an angry cobra in Bangladesh when she transferred out there a while in between Russian spying stints). “I thought we should throw you a party.”

“Yeah?” Vince said, feeling a jolt of excitement. “Where?”

“Why not here? I’ll go out for the evening with Lester and the boys and leave you the place. Just make sure you clean up the following morning and keep any guests away from my Trotsky figurines.”

Vince nodded, having absolutely no clue who either Lester or Trotsky were. “Sure. Of course.” He grinned. “Thanks, Nan. That’s well cheered me up.”

“Will you be inviting all your friends from school?”

“Yeah!” Vince said excitedly. “Leroy and Neon and Ultra and - yeah, it’ll be genius!”

Vince’s Nan sipped her coffee contemplatively. “What about that – Howard Moon?”

Vince clasped his hands together, feeling his pulse beat hard in the ends of his fingers. The kitchen suddenly felt way too warm. “What about him?” 

“I bumped into his mother at my weekend Tae-Kwon-Do class. She was wondering if you and Howard were having a fight, because you used to come to theirs in the morning but you haven’t called for a few days.”

“We’re not having a fight,” Vince said, feeling all the cardboardy cereal settle unpleasantly in his stomach. “I mean, Jesus Christ, we’re not _five_.”

Doris nodded her head with a look of grave understanding. “Hm. It’s just as well. You should never have an argument with a friend that lasts, because you never know when one or the other of you might be abducted by a rival gang of rebels, and you’ll never even get to say goodbye. It’s a dreadful thing. When I was working in Moscow gathering intel on one of my first missions, there was this young boy I knew, who—”

“Uh, sorry, Nan,” Vince interrupted. If his Nan got involved in one of her stories she’d be at it forever, and he had much more important things to take care of. “I’ve got to go, I’m gonna be late. I’ll see you this afternoon.” And he dashed out of the door, turning his collar up against the rain, so mixed up in horrible thoughts about Howard potentially being abducted by foreign spies and never being able to see him again that he completely forgot to grab his umbrella. By the time he got to school, his hair was a trampy, sopping mess, and it was starting to frizz horribly on top, but he was too busy thinking about Howard to care.

*

By lunchtime, Vince thought he might have come up with a plan. He still hadn’t managed to catch Howard for long enough to apologise, or to rope him into a conversation, because Howard was doing his very best to avoid him. But since neither of them really had any other friends except for ones that they both shared, they were forced to sit at the same table and make awkward, fleeting eye contact with each other all day. 

When everyone was sat down at lunch, munching happily on sandwiches, Vince cleared his throat loudly, in a way he hoped conveyed the importance of the message he was about to relay. “It is,” he said, grandly, as all the eyes at the table swivelled to focus on him, “my birthday next weekend, and I’d like you all to know that you’re invited to THE greatest party of the year.” He grinned broadly. Howard would _have_ to accept his invitation under pressure from everyone else, and then Vince would finally have an excuse to talk to him directly.

Leroy cheered. “I’m there, mate,” he said, toasting Vince with his Capri-Sun. “Just name the place.”

“Well, it’ll be at my Nan’s on Colobos Avenue—”

“Your _Nan’s_ house?” Ultra giggled. “So it’ll be chamomile tea and bed before ten, then.”

“I hate chamomile tea,” Joey said, wrinkling his permanently-sunburned nose.

“I like it,” Monty piped up, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Excellent beverage. It has widely-recognised therapeutic properties and works wonders for stress and muscle tension – particularly for those suffering from what one might term monthly ‘lady problems’.” Monty airquoted around the words delicately.

“I’ll give you ‘lady problems’,” Neon said, scathingly. “In your ‘crotch’ after I’ve kicked you in the ‘balls’.”

“Guys,” Vince interrupted before things turned scrappy. “My party.”

“Yeah, sorry Vince,” said Joey earnestly, tugging on Neon’s arm to keep her from taking a swing at Monty. “It’s not like we don’t think you can throw a good party, but why your Nan’s house?”

“My Nan’s house is _my_ house,” Vince explained emphatically. “I live there. And it’s absolutely massive, ‘cause she got dead rich doing all this spy work against the Russians during the war so there’s loads of space. And by the way, my Nan is tough as _shit_ , she could pummel your head in with one hand tied behind her back. She doesn’t drink chamomile tea, she’s got a black belt in Karate and a stuffed badger on her wall. She’s way fucking cool.” 

“Wow,” Leroy conceded.

“Just you wait,” Vince said proudly. “It’s going to be the greatest event of the year.”

“How come you live with your Nan?” Joey asked.

“I moved in. When I started here. Beginning of September. She weren’t on the run from the Russians any more so I got to move in out of the group home I was at before.”

“So wait – you’re a foster kid?” Neon asked, surprised. “Are you an orphan?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Vince shrugged. He forgot to tell people about his family situation sometimes because it got boring, repeating it, and there was never a good time to bring it up out of the blue. Sometimes he told people on purpose to make them feel like shit if they were pissing him off, or to get pity from teachers and extensions on essay deadlines, but mostly he didn’t much like talking about it, because it sucked whenever he thought about it for too long.

“How come you never told us?” Ultra looked curious.

“He told _me_ ,” Howard said, suddenly, looking annoyed. Everyone turned to look at him. Howard turned red. “He talked to me about it ages ago. About everything.”

“He told _you_?” Neon said, disbelievingly.

“Yes, he did.” For a fleeting second, Howard’s tiny eyes darted hopefully over to Vince, who felt something flip weirdly in his chest. “I think you’ll find,” Howard continued, “that I’m a highly trustworthy and emotionally mature individual, which makes me an ideal confidant for a topic as delicate and sensitive as this.” 

All eyes turned back to Vince, and it was his turn to go red. Delicate and sensitive, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t some kind of wilting flower. He was a cockney bitch, he could take care of himself. “Well, yeah, I dunno,” he said evasively, squaring his shoulders. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t care who finds out. Leroy knows too, anyway. I told him about it ages ago.” 

“Ah, yes, your first day at Old Gregg’s,” Leroy reminisced. “You were the orphan, I was the kid from the streets. Like Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger.” He grinned.

“Yeah. Except we didn’t sing a song about it or nothing. Although we should’ve, that would’ve been genius. Could’ve been the moment when a new Charles Dickens tribute band was formed, imagine that.”

“Con-sider yerself, AT ‘OME,” Leroy sang, in a passable impression of a Victorian cockney boy, jerking his elbows up with flair. 

Vince laughed. Everybody laughed, except at the end of the table, Howard stayed silent. Vince looked over to him, hoping he could just smile and ease the tension, but Howard was looking stonily back at him. And there was something, hurt or betrayal or something else all negative behind his eyes, which was almost worse than when Howard wasn’t looking at him at all. Vince felt himself deflate like a balloon, and suddenly, he didn’t even feel like he wanted a party anymore. “Anyway, whatever,” he continued, trying to sound cheerful. “The party’s going to be genius. You’d better all come.”

“ _All_ of us?” Monty asked, hopefully, in his grand, booming voice.

“All of you,” Vince said, firmly, and his eyes slid over to Howard, but Howard looked determinedly away.

*

Vince was feeling sad. It hadn’t even been that long, but he was really starting to miss Howard. It was as if Howard had become an accessory like a favourite hat or scarf that he couldn’t be without, that he needed to make his look and his life complete. Vince wasn’t sure Howard would appreciate being compared to a handbag, but Vince tended to work with a limited range of similes, and the sentiment was definitely there. 

When lessons were over that day (last period was an hour with Fossil putting together an interpretative dance that had to be performed while running laps around the football field – it had been fucking torture, and Vince couldn’t even look over at Howard to share a long-suffering look of resignation because Howard still wasn’t talking or even looking at him) Vince was about to traipse home miserably alone, when Ultra and Neon called him over.

“Oi, Vince,” Ultra shouted out from the midst of the crowd.

Vince perked up. “What?”

“C’mere.” Neon gestured emphatically.

Vince glanced over his shoulder. Howard’s retreating back was trudging down the drive without so much as a goodbye. Vince sighed. “What’s up?” he asked, shuffling over to the girls. 

“You wanna come round mine this afternoon?” Neon said, putting her hands on her hips, which kind of made Vince think she was telling, not asking.

“Sure?” he said, cautiously. “What for?”

“Ultra and I are gonna jam on some new songs. We thought maybe you’d want in. We could maybe use some guest vocals or something.”

“Really?” Vince could barely contain his excitement. “You want me to be in your band?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be _in the band_ ,” Ultra said, holding a hand up to stem the flow of Vince’s inevitable fantasies of stardom. “We just thought it’d be good to mix things up a little for a few tracks.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Vince didn’t even deflate at Ultra’s words. The two coolest girls in the school wanted to jam with him. Vince patted his hair. By touch alone it felt at its optimum height and circumference, and he could do with being distracted from thinking about Howard bloody Moon all day. He was ready to pull some shapes. “Let’s go!”

*

The first thing Vince noticed was that Neon’s bedroom was covered in posters of girls. Girls in tank-tops and jeans screaming into microphones, girls in glitter and heels strutting onstage, girls in bands leaning on each other and staring moodily at a camera, and girls posing alone against epic backdrops with guitars strapped to their backs. In between those posters were magazine cut-outs of Bryan Ferry’s wonky face and a bunch of Depeche Mode lyrics printed out and stuck to the ceiling and walls. Vince almost tripped over a pair of massive, fluorescent green platform heels in Neon’s doorway, his attention distracted by the noise of colour on the walls. 

“Your room’s _well_ cool,” he said, awed, pointing at the pictures of Bryan Ferry. “Bryan fuckin’ Ferry! What a legend.”

Neon looked pleased, and her cheeks might have even pinked a little. “He’s pretty genius,” she agreed.

“You’ve got so many _pictures_ ,” Vince continued to gush, scanning the place with his eyes. “I haven’t had a chance to put everything up in my room at my Nan’s place, yet, and I lost loads of my best posters a couple years back when the foster family I was with confiscated them and I didn’t get ‘em back ‘cause the family were _dicks_ and I wasn’t gonna ask ‘em for nothing, but I bought this genius Dali print in town the other day, and I thought—” Vince stopped talking suddenly as something caught his eye. A series of three photo frames propped up on Neon’s bookshelf. 

In the first picture, Neon and Ultra were smiling, arms around each other. In the second, Ultra was licking Neon’s cheek while Neon pulled a long-suffering, fond sort of grimace. In the third, the two of them were kissing. _Kissing_. Like, proper kissing, rather than the kind of giggly-groping thing girls sometimes did at parties while boys hooted around them. Kissing like maybe they were in love. “ _No way_!” Vince blurted stupidly. He’d only really been joking, trying to cheer Howard up when he’d said Neon and Ultra were lesbians, so the fact that he seemed to be right was hilarious.

“What?”

Vince let out a high-pitched noise of amusement and couldn’t seem to exclaim any other words except, “Actual lesbians!” as he pointed at their pictures.

Neon raised an eyebrow, and her eyes narrowed kind of dangerously. “Pansexual, actually. Not that it’s any of your business. So what?”

“Oh. Nothing,” Vince faltered. “I just – I was talking to – me and Howard said—” Ultra and Neon were still looking at him kind of stonily as Vince cut himself off. “Never mind,” he said, hastily, instead. “It’s great. Congrats. Hope you two are happy.”

“We are.”

“Eight month anniversary in two days,” Ultra said, looking over in a lovestruck sort of way at Neon, who was still glaring at Vince a bit, almost daring him to say something.

“No way,” Vince repeated, looking between the two of them, fascinated. “You two are actually—” And then he giggled again. It wasn’t even really funny. He just felt kind of stupid, now. How had he not noticed?

“What’s so funny?” Ultra frowned. “We invited you here to create musical fusion with us, dickface, not snigger like a chimp.”

“It’s nothing,” Vince said, flapping his hands in the air. “Just. I dunno. You should let people know that you ladies are, uh, spoken for. It would avoid a lot of false hope and disappointment.”

“From who?” Ultra scoffed. Then she raised an eyebrow as Vince squirmed slightly. “Wait. You mean you--?”

“Not just me!” Vince said hastily, feeling his cheeks redden. “I – lots of people!” He didn’t mention which other people, specifically. He didn’t think it would be fair to bring up Howard and the incident with the binoculars when Howard wasn’t around to defend himself. 

“That’s hilarious!” Neon said gleefully, but not unkindly. She patted Vince on the shoulder. “You’re very pretty, babe, but we’re all set.”

“Yeah, I know,” Vince said quickly. “I wasn’t – you know. It’s good! It’s all good. Everything’s good!” He gave them a big, cheesy thumbs-up, then immediately wished he hadn’t because it probably made him look like a tool. He might not have been angling for a date anymore, but he still wanted Neon and Ultra to think he was cool. “I mean,” he shrugged, dropping his hands, in what he hoped was a nonchalant sort of way. “Whatever. It’s no big deal.” It wasn’t really, but he still couldn’t wait to tell Howard he’d been right about them. 

Then, just as he was starting to feel cheerful again, Howard Moon, who Vince couldn’t seem to get out of his mind lately, had just swum all casual-like into his thoughts and made him feel this horrible pang of regret or loneliness or _something_ , and as Vince watched Neon and Ultra holding hands, he abruptly felt horribly sad. He sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Ultra asked, disentangling her orange-tipped fingers from Neon’s purple ones in a truly brilliant clash of hideousness.

Vince sighed. He might as well tell them, since he’d pretty much lost all his dignity, moping over Moon like he had been for the past few days. “Promise you won’t make fun?”

“Promise,” Ultra said, and Neon nodded too, but there was already a smile quirking at the corner of her lips like she couldn’t be held responsible if she let a derisive smirk slip out.

“I think I’m in love with Howard Moon.”

There was a moment of silence. “Really?” Neon asked, incredulously. 

“Yeah,” Vince said, glumly. “I dunno how it happened. He’s such a loser.”

“Like you’re not?” Neon said, that slightly mocking smile creeping back again.

“I –” Vince began indignantly, but Ultra interrupted.

“Trust us, sweetheart,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You’ve got amazing hair and fabulous accessorising skills, but you’re as naïve and clumsy as a baby magpie in a jewellery store. It’s like you live in your own weird world.”

“It is why we sort of like you,” Neon added, looking at Ultra for confirmation, who nodded. “It’s kind of – charming.”

“But I’m still cooler than Howard, right?” Vince asked, hopefully, even as saying Howard’s name made something pang under his ribs.

“You’re _mooning_ over _Moon_ ,” Neon pointed out. “Cool doesn’t come into this situation.”

“But what am I supposed to _do_?” Vince whined. “I don’t know if he likes me. He’s not even talking to me anymore because of that time at lunch when I let everyone think he was being really boring about German even though he was _actually_ just asking me why I hadn’t turned up at the library like I said I would that morning to talk about what happened between us when we were at his house the day before and we almost kissed – ‘cos he kind of threw me out of his house when his mum nearly walked in so we didn’t get a chance to talk about it but then I bailed when I _said_ we were going to talk about it so it’s really all my fault for standing him up – _and_ today I was kind of a dick to him in front of everyone about the whole being an orphan thing ‘cos he was making me all embarrassed but he’s actually been really cool about the whole thing – he didn’t even make fun of me this time when I was all scared and lonely at home and he came over to hang out with me, so it was shitty of me to be so mean to him when he’s actually been a good mate – even though he goes on all the time about how The Human League is shit, but I guess it’s kind of alright ‘cos I make fun of his Sammy Davis Jr. or whatever too, you know? Like, it’s all in good fun like we just tease each other all the time and that was working well for us, but now he thinks I’m a twat and he’s probably right.” Vince stopped to take a breath, then dropped his head in his hands. “It’s stupid because he’s well annoying and a weird jazz freak with horrible dress sense but for some reason I still like him.”

“Well,” Neon said, cocking her head, apparently nonplussed by Vince’s tide of emotion, “you know what you need to do when you’ve been a dick to someone?”

“What?” Vince mumbled into his hands.

“Do something incredible to make ‘em forgive you.”

“Like what?”

“Sometimes actions speak louder than words,” Neon said, wisely. “And you look like you’re not too good at words, so you’re gonna have to go for the actions.”

“Dedicate a song to him,” Ultra suggested. 

“Declare your love for him onstage,” Neon added.

“Surprise him with a blowjob in the bathroom.”

“What?” Vince yelped. “We ain’t even held hands yet.”

“Well you need to do _something_ ,” Ultra said, matter-of-fact. “’Cos obviously having a straightforward conversation is too much for you benders to take.”

“But – I –” Vince said, helplessly. “I don’t know—”

“Studies have been done on the effect of hairspray on the brain, by the way,” Neon interjected. “Just saying. You might want to ease off.”

“Vince,” Ultra said soothingly, as Vince’s face started to purple slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, this is a foolproof plan! How about you let Kraftwerk Orange play at your birthday party, yeah? And we’ll let you do one song where you can be the frontman and everything, and when you’ve got Howard’s attention being all jealous ‘cos all your fans are clamouring around you, then you tell him how you feel.”

“Okay,” Vince said, biting his lip. “You think it’ll work? He won’t just get jealous and leave?”

“No way,” Neon said confidently. “It’s a sure-fire way to success.”

“You’ll be making out happily ever after in no time,” Ultra added. 

“Really,” Vince said, not entirely convinced. 

“Really,” Neon said firmly. “Now can I paint your nails? They’re all chipped to shit.” 

Vince wasn’t totally reassured, but he nodded anyway.


	6. My baby just cares for me

The morning of the party, Vince was a bundle of nerves. He set his alarm for a ridiculous time in the morning (ridiculous for a weekend), then wasted half an hour of what would have been precious planning time lying awake twisted in his duvet biting his nails and trying to calm what felt like a flock of pigeons trapped under his ribcage.

Taking a deep breath, Vince sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, then tiptoed gingerly on the chilly floorboards across the room to his cupboard and pulled open the doors. Inside were a multitude of different outfits ranging from casual – pinstripe jeans and a vintage Bowie tee – to dressy – a frilled silk tunic and knee-high PVC boots. Somewhere towards the dressy end was exactly what Vince was looking for. He rummaged, and his fingers closed around a handful of velvety fabric. Feeling a little jolt of excitement, Vince gave the material a gentle tug, extracting a glittery, feathery coat-cape of spectacular magnificence from amongst all the ruffled shirts and tightly-packed rows of brightly-coloured skinnies. 

This was _the_ outfit. It was the best thing he’d ever owned in his whole life and everyone at the party was going to be horribly, horribly jealous. Vince pulled the cape up over his shoulders, and his bare skin went all goosebumped from the cool feel of it. He twirled around, watching the cape swoosh around his ankles, then looked up at himself in the mirror and preened a bit, standing sideways and checking the overall effect from every angle. _Genius_. Vince turned and looked at himself head-on, hands on hips. The sequins from the cape were making little blue lights dance across his face. It was like magic. 

He bunched the silvery material between his fingers, wrapping the cloak around himself like giant sparkly bat-wings. Okay, so the outfit - that was one important thing ticked off his list. Now all that was left to worry about was performing onstage in front of all his friends, and making Howard fall in love with him. 

Simple.

Vince sighed, put the cape back in his cupboard and dragged himself downstairs to start cleaning the living room out before the first guests arrived. He had to make a start if he was going to have enough time to wash, condition, straighten, feather, and root-boost his hair. 

*

Vince had just collapsed into the ugly old armchair in the living room, sweat dripping uncomfortably down his back, fighting the urge to sneeze from the dust that had got all up his nose, when Doris popped her head round the door.

“Vince, have you got a minute to spare? I’ve got something to show you.” 

“Yeah,” Vince said, rubbing his nose hard with the back of his hand and plucking his t-shirt away from his chest where it was all damp. He didn’t actually have a minute to spare. He didn’t really have _thirty seconds_ to spare. He was starting to lag behind in his schedule; he’d only cleaned half of the living room and he still needed to get ready. His hair alone would take a couple of hours to perfect and Vince was already starting to panic over the prospect that he’d only have time to do one kind of face mask. Doris looked like she had something important to say, though, so he tried take a couple of calming breaths and waved her in. 

Doris was wearing an Admiral’s hat and a navy blue uniform, and was carrying a large box under one arm. “Vince,” she said, adjusting the hat, “I’m off to Lester’s now, he’s organised a big reunion for all the Naval School graduates. Everyone will be staying the night, so I’ll be out of your way.”

“I know, Nan, you told me. Don’t be going all senile on me, yeah?”

“Cheeky.” Doris wagged her finger at Vince, and her hat slipped a little. She pushed it back up. “There’s something I want you to have, before I go. It’s your birthday present. I thought about just leaving it in your room, but...” Doris slipped the box out from under her arm and held it towards Vince.

Vince took the box wordlessly. _A present_ , right. Obviously. People got presents on their birthdays, Vince knew that. It wasn’t like he’d never received a gift before. He wasn’t one of those lonely, mistreated orphans, like Harry Potter or the girls in them Jacqueline Wilson books, getting ignored on his birthday or being expected to show gratitude for a toothpick and a pair of worn socks. Still, Vince had been so caught up in planning today that he’d forgotten presents were a part of it, and the shimmery pink hearts all over the box were making something bubble up in his chest. He swallowed. He picked at the reams of curly gold ribbon on top of the box, then slowly peeled away the layers of bright blue wrapping paper, before pulling the lid off. 

Inside, looking up at him, was something that wasn’t recognisably anything. 

Vince stared. It was a weird, lumpy shape, bright pink in colour, with patches of faded fur in places, and big, unblinking eyes embedded in a garish, fuzzy face above a big, curled moustache. It was wearing a top hat, a monocle, and a tiny Alice Cooper t-shirt wrapped around its shapeless, stuffed body. 

Vince had no idea what the fuck it was, but he knew immediately and without a doubt that it was the best thing he’d ever seen. He pulled it out of the box, cradling it carefully.

“Its name is Charlie,” Doris said, gesturing at the creature. “It belonged to your dad. It was his when he was a boy. I made it for him just after he was born. And I made that little t-shirt for it to wear after your dad went to an Alice Cooper concert for his seventeenth birthday. He still carried Charlie around with him, even then. He loved it. Couldn’t get him to leave the thing alone.”

Vince stared into Charlie’s unmoving face, fingers digging into the fuzzy pink fur. He couldn’t really say anything because there was a lump trying to force its way out of his throat. 

“You know,” Doris said, looking sort of apologetic. “I wasn’t at home very much, when your dad was a boy. My husband – God rest him – took care of your dad more than I could. But whenever I came back, on shore leave or a local mission or doing all my paperwork from home, your dad always asked me to tell him another story about Charlie.” She laughed a little, a creaky, wheezy sound. “ _Charlie Goes Abroad_. _Charlie Buys a Flamingo_. His favourite was _Charlie and the Maroon Capes_ , I told it so many times.” Squeezing Vince’s shoulder once before letting go, Doris adjusted her hat again, and moved back towards the door. “I’ll tell you one of the stories, some time, if you want.”

Vince was still staring at Charlie’s pink face when he heard the snap of a door closing. Startled, he hugged Charlie tightly to him and ran out of the room, quickly unlatching the front door and throwing it open. Doris looked back at him, surprised, as she tugged on a pair of white gloves, then promptly dropped one of them as Vince flung his arms around her neck. 

“Thanks, Nan,” he mumbled into her powdery-white hair. He wanted to say a lot more, wanted to make sense of all the jumbled-up things he was feeling, sort them out and explain what they meant to him, but everything was a tangled mess in his chest, so all he could do was hold onto his Nan tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried not to cry, Charlie squashed happy and oblivious between the two of them. 

*

“Today’s one of the most important days of my life, you know,” Vince told Charlie conversationally, voice elevated over the opening strains of _Personal Jesus_. VH1 were doing a Depeche Mode special, and Vince had cranked it up while he finished cleaning up the house. Charlie was sitting on the windowsill, looking benign and blissfully happy in his bubble of furry pink ignorance.

“I’m turning seventeen,” Vince continued. He pulled an old candle down from the bookshelf. “I mean, seventeen’s not that much of a big deal, by itself. Can’t do _anything_ yet. You can’t even drink – though everyone does. It just ain’t official yet.” He took down a little porcelain tiger that was sitting snug between an old Jules Verne and a fat, leather-bound Alexandre Dumas. “But okay, so my dad went to see Alice Cooper for his seventeenth birthday, so I’m sure that was a pretty big deal for him. That’s why you’ve got that t-shirt.” Charlie didn’t say anything, but he seemed to accept Vince’s statement, so Vince continued. “And today’s a pretty big deal for me, ‘cos today’s the day I’m going to get Howard back.” Charlie stared, unblinking. “I know it’s crazy, okay, I know it sounds stupid, but. I’m pretty sure I love him. I don’t care if it makes me this giant sap. I can’t help it.” 

Vince sighed. He reached for the remote control, turned the volume on the TV right down, then slumped into a chair, pulling Charlie into his lap. “The thing is,” Vince mumbled into Charlie’s fur. “I don’t know if he feels the same way, and I don’t know what to do if it all goes to shit. I wish – I wish there was someone who could tell me what to do.” Vince turned Charlie around to look at him in his monocled eye. Charlie didn’t respond. Vince sighed again and got back up. “Okay, Charlie. I guess I’m doing this on my own, right?” He tucked Charlie up under his arm and climbed the stairs to his room, popping the bubblegum creature up on his pillow. “I’ll let you know how it goes later on, okay?” He waved goodbye, and shut the door, feeling kind of silly that he was talking to an inanimate object, but feeling weirdly better anyway, like maybe Charlie was going to bring him luck. 

Vince felt like he needed all the luck he could get. 

*

“Alright, so let’s go over this one more time. Soon as me and Ultra are done with _Fuck the Binary (I’m in Love With an Android)_ , Vince comes on—”

“Am I getting dry ice?”

“Yes.” Neon rolled her eyes. “Leroy’s working the smoke machine and the lights. Don’t worry, we’ll make you look glam as fuck.”

“Cool.” Vince blew out a nervous breath. The party was underway. Most of the guests had arrived, most of them sporting variations on Vince’s glitter theme (expressly stated in his invitations) although none could hope to rival Vince’s mirrorball cape. Howard hadn’t arrived yet, but Leroy had assured Vince that Howard was on his way, without explaining how he could be sure, and why Howard was even late in the first place seeing as he was usually such a punctual freak. Vince was trying not to invent horrible scenarios where he humiliated himself onstage for no-one because Howard had decided he was too angry at Vince to even show up at his birthday. With some effort, he focused back in on the conversation he was having with Neon and Ultra. “So I come onstage...”

“You come on at the end of _Binary_ ,” Ultra said, putting a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Joey’s going to tail Moon through that last one, he’ll make sure to get him in the crowd for your song.”

“I hope you understand the sacrifice we’re making for you, Vince,” Neon said, fiddling with her guitar strap. “We don’t normally play anything except electro-rock fusion. Ultra breaks out in spots if we’re near jazz for more than five minutes, so keep it short, yeah? I mean, Nina Simone’s one fierce lady, I'll give you that, but _we’re_ more techno bitches, less soul divas, you know? 

“More Queen Adreena, less Queen Latifah,” Ultra added.

“More Patti Smith, less Patti Page.”

“More Teaches of Peaches, less—”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Vince interrupted, running his hand through his hair, and letting the fringe fall wispily across his eyes that were eyelinered all to fuck in a way he hoped look smouldering and dramatic. “I appreciate the help, alright?” He rearranged his cape across his shoulders so it shimmered at its optimum level of glitter. “Anyway, it was your idea in the first place, this whole performance. You said a grand gesture would get me Howard back.”

“Did you learn the words properly?” Ultra said, turning away from him and carefully rubbing a glob more of day-glo green on her eyelids. “We don’t want you embarrassing us out there.”

“Uh, yes.” Vince rolled his eyes. His palms were sweaty. “I know it off by heart.” Vince had been repeating the lyrics to Nina Simone’s _My Baby Just Cares For Me_ under his breath to himself for over a week, and he was pretty sure he knew it back to front. Neon had argued vehemently in favour of doing a cover of Depeche Mode’s _A Question of Lust_ instead, but Vince had thought that if he was going to go all out in his great declaration, doing the kind of jazzy, bluesy number Howard was so fond of would be a much grander gesture on his behalf. Vince had always rolled his eyes or blocked his ears if Howard so much as mentioned a _twelve-bar_ this, or a _chromatic_ that, so this musical sacrifice on Vince’s behalf would speak volumes.

At least, that was what Vince was hoping.

“Alright, then.” Neon clapped Vince bracingly on the shoulder. “Fuck off for a while, we’re about to do our set. We’ll send someone to get you in about half an hour.”

“Don’t get drunk and pass out in the bushes,” Ultra called, slipping out of her trainers and into a pair of garish orange platforms.

“And don’t be a twat if you run into Moon. Play it cool.”

“Yeah. Right.” Vince swallowed down a wave of nausea and slunk out, going over the words one more time in his head.

*

It seemed like barely five minutes had passed before Vince was being ushered hastily towards the makeshift stage in the living room by an over-excited and slightly drunk Joey, who whispered with beery breath into Vince’s ear that Howard had arrived, and was in the crowd, ready to hear Vince sing. Vince felt a bit like he was going to be sick. This was it, then. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ultra said over a screech of feedback. “We’re coming to the end of our set.” There were a few _boos_ from the crowd. “Yeah, I know, I know, you’ll be sorry to see us go. But before we do, we’ve got one more song.” Cheers from the crowd.

“Thanks for watching us tonight. We’ve been Kraftwerk Orange, and we’re going to play you out now with this next track featuring--” Neon gestured dramatically behind her, “our very own host, and today’s birthday boy, Vince Noir!”

Feeling like he was in a dream, Vince stepped forward, and suddenly found himself in the middle of a spotlight, shaking in his stack-heeled Chelsea boots, every sequin on his cape shimmering as wafts of dry ice swirled about his ankles. He took a deep breath, accidentally swallowed a lungful of fog, then coughed and cleared his throat a few times. Neon rolled her eyes.

“Um,” Vince said, eyes scanning the packed assembly of people crammed in his Nan’s front room. Monty was there, blinking expectantly at him. Leroy was standing bare-footed on the sofa, holding a spotlight in one hand which he was shining on Vince’s face, and sweeping the clouds of dry ice Vince’s way with his foot, while he gave Vince an enthusiastic thumbs-up with his spare hand. Joey was waiting in the crowd, bleach-blonde mullet beaming offensively out of a sea of faces. And next to him – Vince felt his intestines contract – there was Howard. Brown slacks, his shirt the colour of vommed-up olives, his thin, wispy hair curling over his forehead and into his eyes which were narrowed directly on Vince. 

“Um,” Vince said again. “So this is a song for my best mate, Howard. He’s kind of a jazz freak so I’m doing this for him, even though it’s actually my birthday. Uh, so. Howard, I just wanted to say – um, I’m sorry. For whatever. And this is for you. Hope you like it. It’s called _My Baby Just Cares for Me_.

Without taking a second to look at how Howard had reacted to his pronouncement, Vince turned around and nodded at Neon who clicked two drumsticks together, shouting “One, two, three four!” before Ultra slid into a bluesy walking bass. Vince took a deep breath.

_My baby don’t care for shows  
my baby don’t care for clothes   
my baby just cares for me.   
My baby don’t care for cars and races  
my baby don’t care for high-tone places.  
Liz Taylor is not his style  
and even Lana Turner’s smile   
is something he can’t see.   
My baby don’t care who knows  
my baby just cares for me..._

*

Vince wasn’t sure how he’d got from the front of the room that was serving as a makeshift stage to the back of the room that led into the conservatory, or when the song he’d been singing had even ended, but there he was, feeling a bit staggery in his shoes from the nerves and adrenaline and the shots of rank Sambuca he’d done with the girls just before he went on, applause still ringing in his ears. People were crowding around him, patting him on the back bemusedly, some telling him he’d been brilliant, others asking him seriously if he was ill. Vince brushed them off with a promise that he’d be back, and wove through them towards the conservatory, to the back door that led into the garage, where he’d seen Howard slink off as soon as he’d finished his song. Vince opened the door, his heart beating much faster than he would’ve liked it to. “Howard?”

“Vince!” Howard spun around, looking guilty. He was shielding the doorway on the other side of the garage that led into the garden. “Um.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Looking for – nothing.”

“Right.”

Howard shuffled uncomfortably. “I – uh. Enjoyed the song.”

“Thanks.” Vince twisted a bit of hair around his finger, tight enough to cut off blood. “Look, Howard—”

“Vince—”

“No, really, I just—”

"Vince."

"Howard, I just wanted—"

“Vince!" Howard said. "Shut up."

Vince closed his mouth, suddenly feeling really stupid and not knowing exactly why.

“Look.” Howard raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose you’d better come outside.”

“What have you done?”

Howard gave Vince a withering look. “Just come outside.” He pushed the door behind him open, and Vince felt a gusty chill sweep through. Howard disappeared into the dark. There was a weird rumbling, humming noise coming from the garden. Confused and a little wary, Vince tottered along after him. As soon as he was through the door, his jaw dropped.

“Um, happy birthday?” Howard was stood awkwardly, hands splayed, arms apart, in front of a giant pink and blue bouncy castle. It swayed a bit with the pressure from the motor and the wind outside buffeting it about, looking like a big, castle-shaped marshmallow.

“Did you – did you get me a bouncy castle for my birthday?” Vince said, edging closer to it.

“Yes. There it is.” Howard gestured awkwardly again. “It seemed to me like the kind of thing you might be into.”

“Howard, it’s _genius_!” Vince said excitedly, and without thinking, he ran forwards and slammed into Howard with a hug, his glittery cape billowing and tangling all around his and Howard’s arms. Vince looked up. “Is this why you were late?”

Howard patted Vince on the back, gingerly, as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to or not. “I was – overseeing the operation.”

Vince let out a tiny squawk of glee and hugged Howard tighter. “Howard, Howard, Howard. Best birthday present ever. Wasn’t it expensive, though?”

Howard was a little red in the face. “It wasn’t – I mean, everyone chipped in. Leroy’s sister works for a party planning company, so that helped. But, um. It was my idea.”

“It was a brilliant idea. Can we go on it now?”

“No, look, Vince –” Howard grabbed Vince’s arm as he was about to launch himself face-first into the bouncy castle. “I need to say something.”

Vince stilled. “Okay.”

“I – ” Howard let go of Vince’s arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That song you did.”

“Yes.” Vince paused. “What about it?” _Moment of truth, moment of truth!_ Vince’s brain was supplying unhelpfully loudly.

“That was – that was like you – doing a grand gesture? To – because you wanted me to forgive you?”

“Yes.” Vince felt light-headed. Everything was suddenly sounding way too loud in his ears, this massive rush of noise like he’d jumped off a cliff on a windy day into the sea.

“Well –” Howard looked meaningfully at the bouncy castle. “This was – my, you know. Grand gesture.” He scrunched up his face and shrugged awkwardly. “To get _you_ to forgive _me_.”

“Wait,” Vince said blankly. “Why do you need me to forgive you? I was the one who was a twat to you. That whole thing at lunch? And the – library? Or whatever it was.”

“Yeah, but I – you know.” Howard’s face went a fiery red. “It was my fault. In my room. That time. I sort of – that wasn’t what I wanted. I just panicked a bit. My mum—”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t what you wanted?” There was blood thumping hard in Vince’s throat, and he could feel it pulsing to the tips of his fingers. The rushing sound in his ears was still there. He still hadn’t hit the ground from that cliff he felt like he’d jumped off.

“I mean – it didn’t happen exactly – how I think it should have. How I wanted it to.”

“Meaning...?”

Howard smoothed a hand over his face like he was brushing at an imaginary moustache, a nervous tic. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“I think you really should,” Vince said firmly. “Just to avoid all future confusion.”

“Alright.” Howard twisted the hem of his shirt in his hands. “So. I like you. You know. And if you would let me kiss you – properly – that would be – that would be alright. I mean, I’d like it. If you wanted to.”

Vince hit the ground. Metaphorically. 

In reality, he leapt into Howard’s arms again, hardly able to contain his excitement, tripped over his own feet that were tangled in his sequined cape, _almost_ fell right over, but was caught by Howard at the last moment. “Oof,” he said, into Howard’s chest, his feet somewhere behind him. 

“Woah, easy little man,” Howard said, bewildered, lifting Vince up by the arms. “You’re a walking disaster.”

“ _You’re_ a walking disaster,” Vince said, not very wittily. Then, hoisting himself upright, said, “Howard, Howard, _Howard_ , do you know I think I’m all a bit in love with you?”

“Oh.” Howard’s shoulders went tense. Vince could see them taught under his horrible green shirt. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Vince bunched his hands in that horrible green shirt, and pulled Howard right up close to him. “Now just – just shush.” And he smushed his face up to Howard’s, closing his eyes and catching Howard’s lips and chasing the right angle until Howard kissed him back. They kissed, weirdly, tentatively for a moment, then Vince cracked an eye open to see Howard’s glassy eyes wide and staring right at him. Vince broke away and burst into giggles. “That’s well creepy.”

“What?” Howard asked, affronted. His lips were all wet. Vince could see them shiny under the moonlight. 

“You. With your eyes staring open. You’re supposed to close them.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t whinge. Kiss me again.”

So they did. They kissed and kissed under the pervert moon that was glowing down at them, illuminating everything they were doing in its milky glare, until Vince pulled Howard into the shade of the bouncy castle. 

“Wanna bounce?” Vince said against Howard’s mouth. 

Howard laughed a bit, a rumble that Vince could feel in Howard's chest where it was pressed up against his, spilling out and buzzing on Howard's lips. They tasted like Werther’s Originals. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No.” Vince pulled away. “I guess it could be. But I really just wanted to bounce on the castle. We can’t stand here and make out all night and waste a good bouncy castle.”

“Can’t we?” Howard said mournfully, tugging Vince back towards him. 

“No. Come on, Howard. _Bounce_.” Vince crouched down to zip his shoes off, then fell over in shock when Neon’s loud voice broke into the darkness. 

“OI, YOU DONE YET?”

“What?” Vince said annoyed, because he had a really bony backside, and falling on it kind of hurt. 

Neon’s head popped through the back garage door peering out into the garden. “You done making up?”

“Making OUT!” Ultra’s voice called from behind. 

“Shut up!” Neon hissed. There was a scuffle as Neon’s head disappeared for a second. Muffled voices, a giggle, then Neon came back. “So yeah. If you’re quite finished. Can we go on the bouncy castle?”

Vince thought about feeling embarrassed for a moment – Howard looked absolutely mortified – but then he decided that he wasn’t going to waste time feeling embarrassed when there was a bouncy castle to play on. “Sure,” Vince said gleefully. “Get everyone involved.”

Neon disappeared again – presumably to round up bouncy castle fans – so Vince turned and kissed Howard again quickly. Kissing Howard was kind of a revelation, in the sense that it felt like the best thing Vince had ever done in his life. It felt good, it felt _right_. Like coming home, or finding the perfect pair of boots to go with a really swish outfit. Boots, or maybe a handbag. One of those vintage ones from Camden market that were a bit odd-looking at first sight, weird colours and knobbly bits, the kind that looked ugly if you only swore by Dior or Chanel, but close up there were intricate, interesting patterns in places you hadn’t seen before, worn-down leather shapes that felt all soft and friendly, jangly metal ring-pulls on the zip making music when you walked. “You’re like a perfect bag,” Vince said, slipping his hands around Howard’s back. “In metaphorical fashion terms.”

Howard frowned. “Is that a good thing?”

“The best.”

“Well then you’re like a complex jazz-funk composition.”

“What, annoying and really offensive to listen to?”

“Well, that. But I meant more that you’re strange and nonsensical but I like you anyway.”

“Cheers, Howard.” Vince grinned. 

“BOUNCY CASTLE!” Neon bellowed, suddenly reappearing, a string of people in tow – Leroy, Ultra, Monty, Joey, all Vince’s friends – excitedly shucking their shoes along the garden path as they all hopped and tumbled towards the castle.

Howard turned to Vince with a smile and gave him a gallant bow, offering his hand. “Care to bounce?”

Vince grabbed Howard’s hand, with a feeling like everything genius in the world was concentrated in a big, expanding bubble his chest. He felt like he could be this happy, forever. “Yeah,” Vince said. “Alright.”

 

*

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on characters, musicians and other references:
> 
> Vince's Nan is supposed to be based on the demon in Nanageddon. I gave her the name Doris, after a character the actress Margaret John - who played Nanageddon - plays in the series _Gavin & Stacey_. She was a massive inspiration for my version of Doris in this story [and is AMAZING on the show](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raqDAtFw-6Y).
> 
> Any reference to Doris' military background comes from very shoddily-browsed pages on Wikipedia and is not meant to be particularly accurate, or taken seriously. If you want to know, though, Doris' passing reference to the KGB refers to a security agency of the Soviet Union from 1954, dissolved at the end of 1991. Also, [this](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Britannia_Royal_Naval_College) is the Britannia Royal Naval College.
> 
> The song Vince says his Nan plays while doing the hoovering is [Boogie Woogie Blue Plate](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHG82Q0nlaU) by Louis Jordan. My dad used to play it when I was a kid on house-cleaning day and the sound of it still brings me out in a rash.
> 
> [This](http://creativekitchenportfolio.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/yorkie.jpg) is the 'Not For Girls' advertising brand for Yorkie bars that someone thought was a good idea. 
> 
> [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0LeL9BUPtA) is the song Vince is singing when he quotes "every day is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey" to Howard. An amazingly 80s video, with stunning 80s hairdos.
> 
> I doubt there's anyone interested in The Boosh or Noel Fielding in some capacity who hasn't heard the major Bowie songs, but just in case, [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W1UVwHUDakI) is 'Rock & Roll Suicide'. I seriously can't watch this without getting emotional.
> 
> Leon Trotsky was a Russian Marxist revolutionary and theorist, among other things. Doris has Trotsky figurines because she goes in for those kind of radical politics. And she likes figurines.
> 
> We've all seen [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNapDkz1urc) from the musical, Oliver!, right?
> 
> Jacqueline Wilson is an excellent English children's book author who writes about a lot of difficult subjects (divorce, eating disorders, adoption, death) for young people, and deals with social issues in her stories. She also focuses a lot on female protagonists and is generally amazing.
> 
> In Neon and Electra's bit about "less soul, more techno," I put the line "more Teaches of Peaches..." because I wanted to reference Sue and Dee's actual band Robots in Disguise, in their song [Turn it Up](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQwrO-LJWE4). My Neon and Electra are born out of the massive love I have for these girls.
> 
> The Nina Simone song Vince dedicates to Howard is the classic [My Baby just Cares For Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SE1VrzT6RrQ). If you don't know nothing about Nina Simone, [educate yo'self](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nina_simone).
> 
> I think that's everything. There are obviously a lot of passing references to a lot of musicians, but if you don't know [Bryan Ferry](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0n3OepDn5GU), then you've kind of missed out on a cornerstone of Boosh fandom and should probably catch up a bit.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
